


The Overthrow

by theatrics



Category: Glee, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-07 00:09:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 78,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/424723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theatrics/pseuds/theatrics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Grappling with major depression and shame following her sophomore year pregnancy, Quinn Fabray convinces her mother to move far away to London, England, where she discovers a secret that has been kept from her ever since she was eleven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The atmosphere is weighted with solemnity as a pair of women, one young and the other of middle age, sit in resolute silence in their finely decorated, suburban living room.

"Are you sure about this, Quinnie?" the older one asks reluctantly, her eyes reflecting a maternal glint so concentrated that it nearly compels the woman to tears.

"I told you already, Mom," murmurs the blonde, her tone hushed yet frustrated. "I don't want to be here anymore."

_I can't take it: the looks, the jibes, the embarrassment. I'll always be Quinn Fabray: the hypocrite—the self-righteous Head Cheerleader and the Christian president of the Celibacy Club who got pregnant at fifteen and then gave her baby away like a coward._

"You'd leave them, then? Your…your Glee club?"

"Yes."

Quinn says the word quickly. She cannot give herself a chance to hesitate. If she shows any signs of uncertainty at all, the other woman will never take her request seriously. Her mother, Judy, heaves a somewhat embellished sigh.

"But England, dear?  _England_?"

The younger of the two seems to take on a cape of annoyance in that moment. Quinn needs to ball her fists in her lap to keep from lashing out at her mother—the only person that she truly has left anymore.

"I need to get away, far away," she explains with intensity. "Mother, I can't—I can't have this argument with you right now. I j-just…"

Judy's eyebrows knit with compassion as she watches her sixteen-year-old child retreat back into herself in wordless defeat, her arms draped around herself.

"I need to go, Mom. Just trust me when I say that I  _need to go_."

"Okay, my sweet," Judy moves swiftly, albeit gently, to take her daughter into her arms in a show of comfort. "Okay. I trust you."


	2. The Prophecy

When one wishes to begin anew, there is not much from one's past that needs to be taken into this novel future, or so a particular teen-aged girl maintains. Such remains quite the same for one Quinn Anne Fabray, daughter of Judy and Russel Fabray (though by the latter she remains disowned).

Having convinced her now-single mother to move to the United Kingdom for a new start, the once-popular cheerleader turned childless underage mother brings little with her to their new home. The only artifact that she keeps in remembrance of her birthplace is a furtive picture taken by Artie Abrams one day during a McKinley High Glee club rehearsal.

With the exception of Matt Rutherford (who had been out with the stomach flu that day) and—of course—Artie, everyone is there. The corners of her lips shudder as her green eyes rove over each of them.

Mercedes is belting a concluding high note as everyone is frozen in perfect patterns around her. Quinn sees herself, not yet showing around the middle and happy— _happy_. She knows then that she had been unaware of her impending pregnancy in this picture, and she suddenly wishes that she had chosen another candid to take. This thought is useless, of course, because this is the only snapshot of her former friends that she has. The blonde nibbles wordlessly on her lower lip before putting the photo back into a small, blue box.

She takes a moment, then, to gaze around her new room. It is small, almost miserably so. Though she knows that she does not have the right to complain, she still feels two emotions kin to irritation and sadness because of this. She feels annoyed with herself for the very idea to move to this dreadful place where it is always raining, and she feels miserable that she has removed every aspect of Lima, Ohio, from her life.

Nine days it has been since they have moved into this two bedroom apartment in uptown London. Nine days, still, has it been since she has had any sort of contact with anyone back in the States. Nine days… nine days it has been since her 'fresh start.' In nine days, too, has Quinn Fabray never felt so terrible.

As though a subconscious motion, her eyes flit over to the collection of white-capped orange bottles that sit on her bedside nightstand. She wets her lips and thinks of the colored and various-sized pills in each of the three. There is Propranolol (small, light orange, and circular) for anxiety; Sertraline (large, pale yellow, and generically-shaped) for major depression; and Trazodone (small, white, and circular) for sleep. Quinn has to laugh at these thoughts, to dismiss them with a fruitless shake of her head.

 _People would think I was crazy_ , she ventures flatly within the confines of her mind as she drifts across her room to sit on her twin-sized bed. She tries not to think of the cause for her need for those medications.

Instead, she looks to the clock on her wall indicating that it is nearly six o'clock in the afternoon. Her mother will be home soon from her day of job-hunting, and Quinn has little to show from her day of unpacking and organizing (and reorganizing). So, she gets up and heads toward the living room, leaving her new bedroom behind.

She supposes that there must be a book from their bookshelf that she has not yet read or perhaps a magazine; however, she does not quite have the chance to go looking. A most peculiar sight catches her attention at the front door. Narrowing her eyes, she discovers, between the small gap of the door frame and the door itself, that there is a paper of some sort.

"What?" is all she murmurs as she shuffles toward it, noiselessly wondering if maybe this is how the English receive their letters in apartment complexes. But, no! There is a mailroom downstairs; Quinn's been there and collected the mail herself. Perhaps it is some sort of notification from the landlords, or—

No. As she grasps a hold of the now-apparent letter and furrows her eyebrows, she becomes aware that this is not at all the case.

 _Ms. Q. Fabray_ , it says on the front,  _21 Camden Court, Apt KG E4, London, England._

"Weird," she mutters, flipping the envelope over to peer at the strange insignia on the back. She spies a rather eccentric emblem, vividly colored with four animals on display and— "Hogwarts?"

 _What in the heavens is Hogwarts?_  she muses. Deciding it best to merely open the letter itself, she does so, making exceptional time. Her eyes round as she reads the contents, shifts through the multiple papers. In truth, there is barely any time that passes at all before she is chortling, laughing at some inside joke that clearly she has missed.

Some joke! She wishes to howl. What sort of kindergarten prank is this, anyway? The blonde grimaces as she crumbles the papers in her hand and casts them toward a nearby waste bucket. To think someone actually believes that she would fall for such a childish hoax. She feels personally insulted and chooses promptly to think nothing more of it until she hears the sound of her mother closing the front door from her new place on the living room loveseat.

"Oh!" Judy seems surprised to see her daughter there, in spite of the fact that it is summer vacation. "Hello, Quinnie."

"Hey, Mom. Any luck today?"

The older blonde's eyes appear to brighten a bit.

"These English folk are positively divine, dear," she croons. "I've two interviews, one tomorrow morning and the other on Friday."

For the first time in months now, Quinn offers her mother a legitimate smile.

"That's great," the teenager replies mildly, truly pleased that at least one of them is settling well.

"And what about you, honey? More cleaning and unpacking today? You went outside and got some fresh air, I hope."

Quinn's lips twitch somewhat as she shifts on the couch.

"Yes and no."

"Oh, Quinnie! You know what your doctors said about getting out and getting exercise."

"I know."

Judy looks as though there is something more she wishes to add, but for some reason or another, she stops herself. Perhaps it is the weary gleam in her daughter's eyes or the presence of another thought on her tongue. Regardless, Quinn is thankful. She is aware of precisely what Judy is thinking of—her need to lose the rest of her 'baby weight.'

"Mom?" Quinn diverts the subject hastily.

"Yes, sweets?"

"So… I got this letter today."

"Oh?"

Her mother is shedding her coat and putting away her purse at this point. Quinn assumes that this is simply idle chat. As a result, she continues plainly.

"Mm. Some idiot trying to be funny, I suppose, making up some school for witches or something called Hogwarts."

The air in the room instantaneously chills.

"Beg pardon?"

Quinn's eyebrows lift as she witnesses her mother's spine grow rigid. When apparently Quinn does not answer speedily enough, Judy presses the issue again, her voice now urgent:

"What did you say?"

"Jeez, Mom," the blond teenager uneasily brushes a few strands of her hair behind her right ear. "I said I got some hoax letter from some made-up place called Hogwarts."

The girl's mother is unbelievably swift as she moves to her child.

"Quinnie Anne, are you planning jokes on Mommy? Because you had better not be—"

Immediately, the younger girl's arms shot up to her own defense.

"Calm down! Why would I lie about something as stupid as a fake letter? Mom, what is wrong with you?"

"Oh,  _god_ ," Judy collapses onto the couch beside her daughter in a hasty sitting position.

"Okay," the worry is thick in the blue-eyed blonde's voice. "Mom, you're really starting to freak me out.  _What_  is going on?"

"Your father and I thought the letters would stop!"

"What? What are you even talking about?"

Frustration is beginning to seep into Quinn's tone as she fixates an intense stare upon her mother.

"Oh, Quinnie! Don't be mad at Mommy when she tells you," Judy begs, moving to grasp her sixteen-year-old child securely by the arms. Quinn, feeling aggravated, wiggles free.

"Mom, seriously, I'm starting to get really freaking weirded out and annoyed with you right now. Just tell me!"

"Russel and I have been keeping those letters from you since you were eleven."

"Wait…  _what_?"

Judy exhales almost as though this long-time-coming disclosure is a weight off her shoulders. Her daughter on the other hand looks about ready to grab her mother by the face and shake her viciously for an explanation.

"We've always been such a strong Christian family, Quinnie," her mother elaborates. "How do you think the rest of the family… no, the Church—no! the world!—would react if they knew that there was another witch in the family."

"Excuse me, but—another  _what_  now?"

"Quinn," Judy Fabray turns to face her now with a level of theatricality that Quinn could only even begin to compare to one Rachel Berry. "Sweetheart, well… er, honey, you're a… well, you're a witch."

Then, she  _laughs._ The former Head Cheerleader merely tosses her head of blond ringlets and  _guffaws_. She cackles until her face is absolutely drenched with tears.

"What's funny?" frets the other. "What's so funny? Quinnie? Quinnie, are you all right?"

Quinn simply cannot answer her mother right away. She finds breath hard enough to come by at the moment. How can Judy possibly expect any sort of intelligible response? Thus, she is left only with the option of shaking her head.

"She- she's right, you know, Miss Fabray."

Both of the Fabray women nearly plunge off the couch at the sound and then appearance of a rather mad-looking woman (poofy, stringy hair and ridiculously thick spectacles!). Judy clutches the left side of her chest while Quinn leaps to her feet mimicking a sort of faux-defensive pose.

"How the hell did you—"

"Oh, through the window," the woman cuts Quinn off with inconceivable politeness.

"The window!" Quinn growls, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling.

"Pardon me. I-I, well, I'm Professor Sybill Trelawney. I teach Divination at Hogwarts—"

Quinn snorts.

"What?" Professor Trelawney looks quite self-conscious at Quinn's reception of her.

"More of this Hogwarts crap?" her eyes turn to Judy as she jabs her right thumb toward Sybill. "Is she in on this, too?"

Both Judy and Sybill exchange awkward glances. It is clear that neither woman has ever met the other in her life.

"Actually," again, the teacher speaks. "actually, ah, Miss Fabray. I have only watched you from afar, I've never actually, ah, spoken to you or your family."

The high school student seems disturbed by this.

"So, you've stalked us my entire life?"

"N-no! No! I've just, you see—I've seen great things about you in your future, Miss Fabray— _great things!—_ and so I've taken a bit of a special interest in you, you see."

"Okay, stop," Quinn's face contorts with exasperation. "What are you, some psychic?"

"A Seer. Also, a witch, but a Seer… witch."

Once more, Quinn is inclined to huff indignantly.

"Mom, I'm calling the polic—"

"No!" Sybill shrieks, throwing both of her hands up. "Just- j-just listen to me, please, Miss Fabray! I'll prove it to you," she says. "I'll prove it to you that you are, indeed, a witch!"

"Call me  _Quinn_ ," the teen's voice is concise and unfriendly. "and fine. I'll bite… but only if I'm allowed to call the police after your ridiculous, failed attempt."

Professor Trelawney fidgets fretfully with her own hands before nodding.

"Okay- o-okay," the elder woman is nervous as she shambles closer to the mother-daughter pair, her eyes always on Quinn even as the young teenager recoils. "Repeat after me as you focus on your acceptance letter, please: ' _accio_  letter!'"

Quinn releases a puff of withheld air as she looks toward her mother whom just shrugs as though to say, 'why not?'

"Oh, fine," she grumbles, her green eyes traveling to the general area of the contents of her letter that she had tossed so vehemently into the trash bin by the front door. " _Accio_  letter."

It is sudden, unimaginably so. Within moments, a curiously revitalized (why, she had crumpled it to bits just minutes before!) letter is in her right palm. Quinn squeaks out a gasp and winds up dropping the letter at her feet. Judy chitters in disbelief before pressing her own hand reassuringly to her forehead as though she would pass out. Professor Trelawney hoots with exhilaration.

"See? See! A witch you are! You are a witch! A witch, a witch—a witchy witch!"

The former Glee club member hasn't a clue what to say. With her jaw unhinged, Quinn desperately attempts to draw moisture back into her desert-dry mouth without any success. What the hell had just happened? Her heart is racing.

"So, you'll come, then?" wonders Sybill, looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the first time during her unwelcome visit. "You'll come to Hogwarts, to school? Where you belong?"

"This is ludicrous."

"No, dear!" she crows with gusto. "This is  _magic_."

Professor Trelawney's gaze focuses now on Judy.

"I'll take her under my wing, ma'am—don't you worry now. Hogwarts'll be a better place to have her. Oh, great things I've seen, just great… great things, indeed! She'll be the talk of the Magic World!"

Judy's open, albeit silent mouth speaks volumes as her rather Quinn-like eyebrows shudder.

"Oh, well," she glances oddly at her child. "Quinnie, love, it's up to you. With Russel gone, I see no reason to, you know… not explore this… this, ah—well, you know what I'm trying to say, Quinnie-puff."

Quinn feels overwhelmed. As her eyes brush fearfully over the felled letter at her feet, she experiences a combination of fright and awe.

 _Did I really do that?_ she wonders. Still, she is hesitant. This could either be the best decision she has made in years or the absolute worst. In the end, she supposes that nothing can be worse than the night she allowed herself to give in to her insecurities, to become pregnant and consequently lose everything that she thought she ever had.

"Fine," she concludes. "but I still don't know if I believe you."

The unusual educator beams and clasps her hands over Quinn's (only to have them yanked away moments later).

"You shall soon see what it is you have missed for all these years, Miss Fab-  _Quinn_. I didn't fight for your unthinkably tardy admittance because I thought it'd be for nothing."

Quinn eyes her curiously.

"Oh, you'll see. Meet me tomorrow at this address, yes?" says Sybill as she thrust a piece of folded paper into Quinn's right hand. Even as she looks at the contents of the note, the blonde is guarded and tentative.

"Sure."

"Good, good!" exclaims Professor Trelawney. "See you at another rooster's crow!"

And then she is gone, seemingly evaporated right before their eyes. Quinn is left staring, slack-jawed and disbelieving.

She has no clue what she has just gotten herself into.


	3. Long Time Traveller

As it happens, it is considerably odd how the subsequent day progresses. For whatever (and quite possibly foolish) reason, Quinn's mother allows her to go and meet the strange woman from the day before. While this seems unreal to the young blonde, it also only strengthens her convictions that Judy knows more than she is letting on about this whole wizarding business. Regardless, Judy has given Quinn a lump of cash and a sack lunch for the day's festivities, but has otherwise left her youngest daughter to her devices while she presumably goes job-hunting.

 _It'll be her fault if this crazy lady is a serial killer_ , muses Quinn as she steps off her bus and finds herself face-to-face with a rather horrendous-looking—oh, what do they call it here? …right— _pub_.

"You've got to be kidding me," she murmurs, exhaling as she fumbles for the piece of paper the woman had given her the day before. Her green eyes scan over the address multiple times, switching back and forth between the paper and the establishment. She is at the right place. "Do I look old enough to drink to her?"

"Oh, why, of course not!" comes a high-soaring, lark-like voice. The American teenager's arm-hair stands on end as her body hitches from evident surprise. Professor Trelawney seems aloof as she saddles up beside Quinn. "This is the Leaky Cauldron, you know—why, it is the very doorway to where you'll be heading to gather your supplies Miss- oh, Quinn."

Trelawney's words seem to slide into an increasingly awkward tone, but Quinn appears far too engrossed with the forefront to notice.

"A bar- I mean, a pub, though?"

"Just shuffle inside, Quinn. Now, don't be shy!"

"You do realize that if we aren't tossed out that we'll both be arrested, right?"

The Divinations professor brushes her right palm over her lips to stifle an amused chuckle before waving Quinn forward.

"Go on, dear; go on."

Increasingly reluctant, Quinn moves against her better judgment and scuttles inside the pub known as the Leaky Cauldron. She is met with little review (a few unnerving, male glowers, but nothing more), and this manages to soothe her worries, if only slightly.

"Come, come!" Trelawney sing-songs as she brushes past, leading Quinn toward what she can only assume is some sort of storage room in the back. They make quick work of their travels for soon they are in what appears to the younger girl to be, as expected, a stockroom.

"What are w—"

Again, Quinn jumps as she is met by the bug eyes of the queer professor so invasive of her personal bubble.

"We are about to head into Diagon Alley, dear," Trelawney fumbles excitedly over her words. "You'll get your things, and then I'll send you on your way. You're a little behind, you see. The train bound for Hogwarts leaves in—" a quick glance is given heavenward by the woman, puzzling Quinn. "—oh, four hours! Well, come on, then, you!"

The elder witch taps some sort of rhythm upon the stone wall ahead before stepping back to reveal what seems a right black market setting to Quinn. Uttering only a few hurried  _come on's,_ the green-eyed girl presumes that she must follow this unconventionally mad woman. Quinn once again figures that she has nothing else to lose.

So, she takes that first, insecure step.

* * *

Nearly three and a half hours later and the morning-borne witch is toting a caged owl beneath her arms and carting a dolly stacked with trunks through a train station. She has been given little order other than,  _"Just find platform 9 ¾, dear."_

"A great help she is," Quinn curses beneath her breath as the owl trills as though in agreement. Good-naturedly, the blonde rolls her eyes. "I like you already, bird."

Together, they stroll through the station, slowly passing platform 1, then 2, then 3… As it happens, the American teenager only begins to grow concerned when she catches the time (10:50 a.m.) and realizes that she is barely past platform 8. Gazing ahead, she counts the subsequent platforms—9, 10, 11. She squints, pausing between 9 and 10.

"Where…"

Nervously, she begins to nibble at the inside of her cheek. She whips her head left and then right, spying a few employees and silently mulling over whether it is worth her and their time to pester them over something that may very well be fiction.

 _Then again_ , Quinn muses crossly,  _I am lugging a suitcase of spellbooks and a freaking owl around._

Groaning softly, her free left hand finds her hip as she peers about in exasperation. She catches bits and pieces of various conversations but hears nothing of this 'platform 9 ¾.' Admittedly, she begins to feel genuinely anxious. Setting her owl's cage down, she begins to fumble shakily through the contents of her purse. It takes only a moment before she has found her prize, an orange medicine bottle.

Quinn gathers saliva in her mouth as she pops and unwinds the cap and then flicks the small, circular pill onto her tongue. Awkwardly, she swallows, knowing that, within five minutes, her system would begin to calm and that the looming panic attack would gradually start to dissolve away. This alone is comfort enough for her, even in the face of the nearby clock glaring her in the face.

_Crap._

"I'll see you two, then," a quaint voice announces close by, loosely drawing Quinn's attention to it. She spies a curly-haired brunette, presumably around her age, bidding an older male-and-female pair goodbye.

"We'll miss you!" insists the woman to the younger girl.

"I'll miss you, too, Mum, but I've got to go. I'll be late!" the dark-haired teen chuckles lightheartedly as she hugs both of them. It is only then that Quinn's eyes brush over the English girl's similar cart and what looks to be a caged cat. Hope burns in the pit of her stomach.

Snatching up her owl haphazardly, Quinn rolls her own belongings toward the brunette just as she appears to be setting up shop to face a brick wall.

"Hey!" she calls breathlessly. "Excuse… excuse me!"

Those final words do the trick, for a pair of unfamiliar brown eyes are soon on Quinn. Her heart lurches a bit.

"I'm- I'm looking for platform 9 ¾," comes Quinn's winded explanation. "Can you help me?"

Those eyes, so calculating and decisive, look as though they are going to pierce directly through Quinn. Though this unnerves her, she resets her jaw and cants her head up slightly to convey at least a bit of confidence.

"My goodness. And how old are you?" the girl sounds disbelieving. "Have you not done this numerous times before?"

Irritation prickles the blonde's skin raw.

"No."

Quinn watches as the presently nameless teenager rolls her lips over each other.

"Well, come on, then, I guess, or we'll both miss the train," she heaves a sigh. "Run at the wall—this one right here." Incredulous, Quinn's jaw slackens as she witnesses the girl flick her wrist at the wall between platform 9 and 10.

"You're not serious."

The stranger's brow line furrows.

"What have I to gain from lying to you?"

"I don't know! My shattered skull?"

A laugh, primarily annoyed and yet subtly amused, trickles from the young girl's lips.

"Stop being silly, would you? Just run at the wall, or we'll both be miss the train!"

"Absolutely not!"

"Fine!" she tosses her liberated arm up in petulant defeat. "Suit yourself, but I've got to go. Don't say I didn't try to help you."

Without another word, the girl gathers her things and bounds toward the wall. Quinn holds her breath, ready to either howl with laughter or sneer but is alarmed when the stranger glides right through. Her eyes, round and astonished, dart around.

 _Did no one see that?_  Her question is evidently answered by the obliviously cheery prattle that continues on all around her. She releases a puff of air before glancing toward the clock:  _10:58 a.m._ A renewed sense of urgency doubles her over as she grasps at her possessions.

Quinn more or less reasons that she has nothing to gain from merely standing around.

_And if this doesn't work, if I ever see that girl again, I'll bust her nose for this._

Setting her shoulders, she holds tight to her luggage before darting forward. Closing her eyes, she silently prays that this isn't some trick of the eye, that she isn't about to barrel directly into a brick wall or—

Her eyes reopen, and much to her now steadily aging bewilderment, she has apparently passed through (just as the other girl had). She stands now upon a rather strange-looking platform, alive and boisterous with children of all sorts and ages.

"You have got to be kidding me," Quinn wheezes, her owl chittering animatedly beneath her hold.

"Hurry up, then! All aboard who's goin' aboard!" a voice booms, knocking the teenager from her thoughts.

Grumbling uselessly to herself, Quinn drags her baggage toward the train before boarding it in silence. Once onboard, she spies people of various backgrounds: talking eagerly, playing games,  _doing magic_. The latter causes Quinn to deadpan.

 _Oh, god_ , the blonde frets inwardly,  _I don't know that I'll ever get use to this._

As expected per her tardiness, she finds that the majority of the seats are taken, or at least filled with increasingly unappealing-looking individuals (particularly those in green and silver garb, she notices). Now visibly irritated, she makes her way to the back of the train, her arms at this point aching from the weight of her belongings. Without looking, she swings open the door of the last sitting area.

"Mind if I—"

Her pupils dilate as she discovers a trio within the space: one of whom she clearly recognizes as the girl whom 'helped' her back at the station.

_Well, crap._

"Sorry," Quinn mutters, her eyes diving down and to her left. "Just… everywhere else's taken."

She doesn't require sight to know that the girl from before is staring at her again, practically setting her ablaze with her eyes. The train jerks forward somewhat before anyone thinks to speak again.

"Oh, well," says the redhead to the right of the compartment. "You can sit with us, a'course. Hermione?"

Quinn allows her eyes to look up at the sound of the girl's name. For a tense and heated moment, the two girls lock eyes. It is with a knot in her stomach that Quinn realizes it is by  _Hermione_  that she will be sitting for this ride.

_Awesome._

The corners of Quinn's lips tremble upward in an awkward smile as she shelves her things away in the loft above. As it is now time to take her seat next to Hermione on the bench, she carefully positions herself as far away as possible without actually having to reveal that this is her intention.

"I can't say that I've ever seen you around before," the orange-haired boy continues. "Name's Ron—Ron Weasley."

"Harry Potter," is what the boy beside Ron chimes in.

"And that's—"

"Hermione," the girl in question interjects, her eyes burning holes into the floor. "Hermione Granger. We've met."

"What?" Ron exchanges a confused look with Harry.

"At the train station," Quinn mumbles uncomfortably. Even so, there is a defiant (or, perhaps, stubborn) part of her that refuses to apologize for their encounter. "My name is Quinn…Fabray."

"Blimey! You aren't from America, are you?" blurts Ron, though he quickly recants. "I mean, the way you talk and all."

Abruptly very self-conscious, Quinn curls her fingertips against the skin above her knees.

"Actually, I am," she responds, her voice returning to its neutrally diplomatic tone. "I just moved here."

Three sets of eyes ignite in that moment, each with their own sentiments.

"Wicked!" Ron exclaims, a right kid in a candy store by the way he is glowing at Quinn's revelation.

"Well, I suppose that explains the attitude," Hermione gripes beneath her breath, causing Quinn to side-glance the girl with mild disdain.

"Oh, come off it, Hermione," the blue-eyed boy chuckles. "Don't mind her. She's a bit grumpy sometimes."

"I am not!" the brunette jumps to her own defenses as both of the boys collapse in laughs.

Quirking a curious eyebrow, Quinn finds herself wordlessly fascinated by the three of them.

"So, if you just moved here," Ron begins to muse aloud. "and we've never seen you before. Is this your first year at Hogwarts, then? I mean, I know America's different and all with how people look, but…" he narrows his eyes as he seems to take Quinn's appearance into question. "you don't look eleven to me."

Shaking his head in amusement, Harry knocks his elbow into Ron's right arm.

"Hey! I'm just asking!"

"I'm sixteen, actually," Quinn murmurs plainly. Beside her, Hermione is stirring.

"Does that…" the brown-eyed girl's voice is quiet at first, contemplative. "Does that mean you'll be a sixteen-year-old First Year? Why… that's just absurd! It's—well, it's just unheard of!"

Anger flairs in Quinn's belly as she looks to her left. Her face feels hot as suddenly all of their eyes are on her yet again.

"I'm certain that's not what's going on, Hermione," Harry maintains coolly. "There's surely another explanation for it."

Quinn's eyes become slits as she takes each of them in. What in the world are they going on about? 'First Year,' she distantly understands, but everything else is simply beyond her.

"Yes," Hermione agrees after a moment, seeming to settle. "Yes, I'm sure you're right."

"So, have you gotten your letter before?" Harry presses gently. "Before now, I mean?"

The blonde shakes her head before leaning back into the seat.

"No," she clears her throat uncomfortably. "Apparently, my mom's been hiding them."

"Your mother?" parrots the girl next to her. "But why would sh—"

"She said something to the effect of, 'we're a strong, Christian family. What would our friends think?'"

"Weird," Ron observes shrewdly.

Both Harry and Hermione share dubious expressions.

"This is all just so very odd," laments the brown-eyed witch.

"I'm sure that Dumbledore is fully aware of the situation, Hermione," again, Harry is the one to comfort the bizarre, possibly neurotic girl.

"I certainly hope so," Hermione exhales before turning her attention back to Quinn. "So, are your parents muggles, then?"

"Muggles…?"

"Non-magic folk."

"I don't know," Quinn admits, perturbed. "I guess. I mean, I've never seen them brewing potions or turning people into frogs."

"Turning people into frogs! Is that all you think we witches and wizards do?"

"Calm down, 'Mione!" Ron holds his hands up. "You'll scare the girl off before we've even gotten to Hogwarts."

"Sorry," breathes Quinn, clearly not feeling bad for her choice of words at all by the look of judgment upon her face. "I really don't know what's going on at all, to be honest. Some bug-eyed woman who called herself a teacher at this school just brought me into all of this yesterday."

It takes a moment but soon perceptive exhales of ' _Trelawney_ ' pass between the threesome. Quite frankly, their unintentional little 'in-jokes' are beginning to rub Quinn entirely the wrong way.

"Could someone please just explain all of this 'Hogwarts' and 'witch' tripe to me,  _please_?"

By the sound that Hermione makes at her side, Quinn knows that she must have offended her another time. However, by some higher power's blessing, the brunette says nothing of it.

"Fine," Hermione agrees. "but you must pay attention, because we'll be lucky if I finish by the time this train reaches its destination."


	4. Stranger in a Strange Land

Perhaps more or maybe a little bit less, Quinn withholds the knowledge of her new and perplexing whereabouts. Regardless of the jury's verdict on that note, though, a week still manages to pass since her official arrival at Hogwarts, and she still sustains not even an inkling of a reason as to why she is here.

Ever since she has stepped off onto the platform after essentially having her ears talked off by that Hermione Granger, she has been traveling light (  _alone, isolated, solitary_ ). In all honesty, she has vague to little understanding of the full situation at all. She ponders, as she strolls the corridors toward the House dormitories, the circumstances of her first night here. In the midst of it all, she can find it nothing less than unspeakably unsettling.

* * *

One by one, the young ones had strolled up toward the forefront, waiting anxiously for their turn beneath that queer, talking hat. Quinn had watched, bleary-eyed and bewildered (perhaps, even, a bit afraid), but she had been in the back.

"Wait here," a scruffy-looking man had rasped in her ear. Not one to want to converse or argue with questionable persons too often, she had complied and kept to herself.

Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin: those were the houses that Hermione had thoroughly grilled her on; and, tonight, those were the words that captured the evening.

Curiously, Quinn had overseen the ceremony, her lips pursed tightly and her eyebrows set slightly askew. She had been taking in the appearances of each child sorted as though trying to identify a pattern. The green-eyed witch would be lying if she said that she hadn't been gifted with mild prejudices already from the Granger girl. Nevertheless, she remembered finding it relatively strange that she spied little differences from house to house.

Sure, a few from Gryffindor had seemed a bit too certain of themselves, and those boys and girls from Ravenclaw had shuffled almost wordlessly to their seats. She recalled the pleasant indifference of the Hufflepuffs (and, truly, what the hell was a Hufflepuff?) and the mild to heavy swagger of those of Slytherin. Other than that, physically-speaking, there had seemed to be no particular 'type' for the houses. They had all just been children, different in some ways but undoubtedly similar in others.

But, in all honesty, it was the subsequent chain of events that had truly troubled the American teenager. All sorted and spoken-to, the witches and wizards were then dismissed, leaving Quinn (  _unsorted, unspoken-to, uncertain_ ). The room had quickly emptied, and there had grown a black pit of worry in the depths of Quinn's already-nervous stomach.

"Miss... Fabray?"

Quinn reminisced how hard her head had jerked in the direction of her name. She had seen an old man, the main speaker of the evening. He had been grand and prophetic in his whole uncharted splendor. Truly, there had been something about the elder wizard that had rendered Quinn to a slumbered state of childlike awe.

"Miss Fabray?" he had asked once more.

"Yes, sorry," Quinn had mumbled.

"I apologize for being so cryptic about your presence during the ceremonies," the man had confessed, padding toward her. "I hadn't meant to make you feel excluded."

A definite 'ping' had shot through her heart, but she had chosen to ignore it for the time being.

"Oh, no," she insisted. "I- it's fine."

"No," he had politely disagreed as he stood, in that instant, right in front of her. "I must say that it was not fine but merely obligatory. However," and he had then motioned his aged hands toward the stool where the so-called Sorting Hat still rested. "it is now your turn, Miss Quinn Fabray."

Skepticism had found her first. Her eyes, round and green, had moved to the hat and then back to the old wizard.

"Go on."

His words were the epitome of lack of judgment. They had been encouraging, abnormally understanding. Quinn remembered only abstractedly nodding her head and setting her shoulders before she had coasted toward the front of the large room. To her, she reflected, it had seemed as though only the ancient man and she remained, but as she neared the front, she realized with unease that two other women stood, presumably waiting for her.

She had recognized only one.

"Oh, Quinn! You made it! I saw that you would," Professor Trelawney had chirped, warranting a look of sorts from the other woman present.

"Welcome to Hogwarts, Miss Fabray," the nameless witch had spoken eloquently. "I am Professor Minerva McGonagall."

Quinn had simply pressed her lips together before murmuring a noncommittal 'hi.'

"Take a seat, if you will."

Combing her teeth over her bottom lip, the blond witch had fumbled awkwardly with her hands before shuffling stiffly over to the small stool. Her backside had barely brushed the seat before the atrocious talking object had howled a single word:

_RAVENCLAW._

They had, with their furtive smiles, whisked her quickly away then with mysteries on their lips and urgency in their eyes.

* * *

Since that night seven days ago, she has been their tight-lipped secret. She walks with the children, and she is the outcast-the sixteen-year-old First Year, the oddity, the stranger, the American girl. Quinn puts on an iron impression, but it rattles her inside. She hears their whispers ( _"Rather plump around the hips, isn't she?"_ ) and their gossip ( _"I suppose an American girl would be too daft to start at eleven like the rest of us!"_ ).

Her mind is cruel in that it bombards her with the memories of her sophomore year at McKinley High School. She hears their snickering in the back of her head, feels the sting of their condemnatory eyes. The blonde is all but in a panic as she stutters the answer to the riddle to grant her entrance into the Ravenclaw commonroom.

She can scarcely bring herself to look at her peers as she rushes inside, begging her feet to slow their pace as she makes a beeline for the stairs. Her arrival brings a heavy silence to the room, and she can only think of how much she wishes that she could teleport from before their eyes. They are wary of her, and Quinn does not even begin to ponder why. She knows only that she has done nothing to warrant it as she scales the staircase, the clicking of her kitten-heeled shoes pounding in her temples.

As soon as she spots her bed, she has to physically restrain herself from tossing her body as one would dead-weight upon it. Instead, she opts to collapse on her behind, her shaking and sweaty palms coiling menacingly above her knees. Her throat is tight, and her complexion is pale. She thinks only to gaze wildly over at the small table at her bedside.

Quinn's hands trip over themselves as she digs around in the first draw desperately, echoes of  _'where is it, where is it'_ soaring into a resounding crescendo in the confines of her skull. It is chalked quickly up to her frantic state of mind as to what causes her patience to dry up to nothing before she can even feel around in the drawer's entire contents.

" _Sh_ -shit!" she hisses, slamming her balled fist in brutal, jerking motion onto the top of the meek nightstand.

Her fingers are a slave to their tremors now, and she has to pull her arms into herself simply to remain upright on the side of her bed. She bites the inside of her cheek, rough and unforgiving, and it is mere seconds before there is a rush of liquid, warm and metallic, on her tongue.

"Where are they?" Quinn whimpers, sweat collecting at her brows. Her chest heaves at the thought of her anti-anxiety pills being missing in action. How would she cope? She knows that she couldn't. She simply couldn't.

Another swear leaps from her lips as she drapes her arms tightly around herself. Her fingernails, though short, make quick works of art on her tender flesh. In mere heartbeats, she has scratched heinous welts along the territories of her triceps. Sobs are caught and thus bubble at the base of her throat because of the burning of her ministrations, but she makes no sounds otherwise.

"That's a funny thing to do."

The green-eyed girl's chest expands in shock at the sound of another's voice. She catches herself mid-curse as she feels a vivid presence at her left side. It is another girl, a scraggly blonde with silvery grey eyes-and she is staring at her in a most disheartening vein.

"Who- what do you think you're doing?" Quinn demands unthinkingly as she collapses her fingers protectively over her red palms.

"I suppose I could ask you the same," ventures the stranger, her tone of voice whimsical and cloud-light. "I sleep here, too, you know."

Sniffling softly, Quinn catches her mistake before swallowing and bowing her head mildly in embarrassment.

"Sorry," she mumbles. "I didn't... I just didn't expect anyone."

"Oh, it's all right," the bright-eyed witch assures her. "I often slip in unnoticed."

"Okay..." Quinn's voice trails as she realizes that she doesn't quite know how to respond.

"I'm Luna Lovegood, by the way. Would you mind if I took a seat?" the casual nature of Luna's request surprises Quinn as her green gazes flies atop the motion of the other girl's hand to beside her on her bed. Though uncomfortable, she licks her lips and nods.

"I guess," Quinn offers her a caustic smile. "Sure."

"Lovely," Luna lilts, sitting herself to Quinn's left with still a charitable amount of distance between them. "And, if you don't mind, as well, might I ask for  _your_  name?"

"It's Quinn. Quinn Fabray."

"That's a rather nice name," she concludes promptly.

"Thank you?" Quinn's eyes are anxious as they sweep across the floor.

"I can tell you're uncomfortable, you know, Quinn," Luna assures her, her tone reflective as she plays nonchalantly with a piece of her own, long hair.

"I- uh-"

"No, it's all right," she shrugs. "I just simply couldn't leave you be any longer, you see. You've looked awfully lonely this past week."

In the face of her efforts to keep up appearances, Luna's words unintentionally stab at Quinn's resolve. Like a needle-prick to her fingertip, the contents of her mind slowly begin to ooze out. Glancing away from the floor, she takes now to the bare wall to her right. This does not combat the feeling of Luna's placid, albeit prying eyes, however.

"Perhaps you'd like a proper friend?"

Luna's proposition rattles Quinn to her core. It is chaste and heartfelt, and suddenly, she feels a right child of five on the playground again during Kindergarten recess. Almost every day then she had been forging relationships and declaring strangers her best friend. But that had been then.

She is no longer a child.

"Well-"  _Don't be stupid. You don't have anyone else._ "Yeah. I'd, ah... I'd like that a lot."

From beside her, Luna coos with evident gladness while clasping her hands together.

"Wonderful," she chimes lightly in her bell-tone voice. "Also, I wouldn't mind those of our house or others, Quinn. People talk, you know, but that's all it is: talk. You needn't let them make you sad."

Again, Quinn is mystified by the simple kindness embedded in Luna's manner of speaking. She is virtuously casual and yet improbably comforting. It is with a pang of nostalgia that she is reminded of her once-friend Brittany Pierce. She had been so much smarter than people had given her credit for.

"I'm not..." Quinn catches herself mid-denial before retreating into herself once more. "I mean, well, yes."

Her wording is gauche and tentative as though she has suddenly lost her grip on her collective calm. All the while, Luna is merely pondering into the strands of her pale waves of hair. She seems almost unaware as the unpleasant (in Quinn's mind, at least) quiet settles. Quinn glances from side to side for a split-second just as she opts to give the conversation room to bloom.

"So, where are you from?" she inquires impulsively.

"Oh, just outside of Ottery St. Catchpole."

Quinn furrows her eyebrows.

"That sounds... nice."

"Why, it's quite nice," Luna ventures breezily. "I live there with Dad, but I spend most of my time outside doing this or that."

For a better moment, Quinn debates pressing the issue of Luna's apparent single-parent household, but she thinks better of it. She can scarcely stomach the irony of her own angst, let alone someone else's.

"My mom and I just moved here, to England," Quinn submits the latter bit as a small clarification.

"Yes, I did hear something of your American heritage. That is quite interesting," those ghost-like eyes of hers leave the ends of her hair now and lie to rest on Quinn beside her. "I wasn't certain if it was true. I'm glad to know that it is, though."

Quinn chuckles a bit laboriously while shifting on the edge of the bed.

"I didn't exactly have the time to get a feel for this... for the UK."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, uhm," feeling abruptly inelegant, Quinn winds her fingers through the hair at the back of her own head. "this woman from your school- I mean, from here, Hogwarts, kind of just appeared in my house. Professor Trelawney, she said her name was."

Next to her, Luna is smiling to herself.

"Yes, that seems like something that she would do, I suppose," then, as a footnote, she adds: "Perhaps she has seen something about you to bring you here now."

The sentence is utterly harmless, and yet it makes the hairs of Quinn's arms stand on end.

"Come again?"

"She is the Divinations professor. I'm almost certain she must have mentioned that to you."

"I think, maybe," Quinn shrugs. "but I'm not familiar with that sort of... subject."

"I suppose you shouldn't be as this is your first year here..." Luna muses mildly, her eyes briefly trained on something unable to be seen before her. "she teaches the art of seeing into the future. Rather curiously enough, she is also a Seer-a true one, too. She often receives prophecies."

Quinn begins to chew on her lower lip nervously. All of this talk of magic and psychics (or whatever) is making her skin crawl.

"I guess I should have known that, or something," Quinn manages maladroitly. "On the train ride over, I ran into some people that sort of filled me in on the basics."

"Oh, really? Well, that was kind of them," Luna chuckles airily to no one in particular. "Did you happen to catch their names?"

"Uhm," the American blonde sifts hastily through the contents of her mind from the past few days. "There was a redhead... R...on, I think it was. Then Harry? He had glasses. And the girl who never stopped talking, Her...uh-"

"Hermione Granger?" warbles Luna. "Oh, she's lovely. All three of them are. You were lucky to have met them."

"It's not that they weren't nice," that itchy, ungraceful feeling of having made some sort of mistake returns to Quinn again, and she feels the need to rub her own arms up and down a time or two. "I just don't think the girl- _Hermione_ -liked me too much, is all. It's not a big deal, though."

"I'm sure that isn't true. Hermione enjoys most people," Luna cranes her head to smile reassuringly at Quinn. "Maybe she was having a bad day."

Once more, Quinn shrugs.

"Like I said, it's not a big deal. I'm sure I won't see her again."

Luna giggles and slips off Quinn's bed at last.

"That's a peculiar thing to say," she sports an almost ethereal grin.

Quinn tries to laugh off Luna's oddities as she watches the other blonde whip about to meet her eyes again.

"Why's that?"

"Well, I was going to ask you if you'd like me to formally introduce you to them-"

"But... I've already met them."

"Don't be silly!" Luna chitters. "Then you were strangers on a train; now you're classmates! Surely you'd like to say 'hello' to them again, if nothing but to thank them for their kindness in taking you under their wings."

For a heartbeat, Quinn considers revoking Luna's status as a fragment of Brittany. Her flippant persistence rings more true to Rachel's likeness. Perhaps it is simply that Luna is a blatant combination of the two. Quinn blanches.  _That_ is a truly dangerous union.

"I- fine. Sure, that's fine."

 _Really, what else am I supposed to say?_ her mind is divided.  _She's all you've got at this point; don't mess this up with a bad attitude._

"Magnificent!" larks Luna, interlocking her fingers together in a single, most silent clap. "Might I escort you to breakfast in the morning, Quinn?"

"If you want," she peers at Luna ineptly before allowing her shoulders to fall.

"I do, indeed."

"Well, uh... I'll meet you in the commonroom at ten before nine?"

"I suppose that will do just fine," Luna nods her head absentmindedly. "I also think that I will lend you my pair of spectrespecs, Quinn. There seems to be an awful lot of noise around your head."

The words are gifted to Quinn as Luna departs, her feet tapping frivolously upon the floor. She scuttles down the hall, presumably to her own living space, living Quinn dumbfounded and more than a bit flustered.

What had just happened? Had someone conned this girl into befriending her? Quinn would know. Back at McKinley and with the help of Santana and Brittany, she readily made the lives of other students (mostly female) miserable with various ploys. Needless to say, though she finds Luna moderately endearing, she is gravely suspicious of her motives.

Quinn falls back onto her bed and releases a noisy puff of air from her lungs. Her hands soon find their way to her cheeks as she grumbles—critical of her own irrationality.

On one hand, she pegs herself 'logical' (in any case, she doesn't know these outlandish people). On the other hand, she sees herself as desperate. She is in a strange world with even stranger people, and she is alone. There is no cheerleading squad beneath her chain of command, no Glee Club to turn to. She is merely Quinn Fabray: the unsuspecting new girl at a school for magic folk, and as ludicrous as it sounds, she cannot help but think in contempt of her situation.

How many girls had she tortured that had been in the very same position that she is now? How many, indeed. Now, here she is, taking a glorious marathon run in their shoes. She smiles bitterly before shucking off her own from her feet.

She would meet with the three from the train tomorrow, and she would see just what Luna Lovegood's intentions were. If she is anything at all like Brittany or Rachel, then she is not compatible of too much harm.

It is settled, then. While Quinn shamelessly discards the remnants of her previous elevated status, she tries on the tight-fitting linens of victims' past on for size. She takes up their cloaks and decides that tomorrow she has nothing else to lose but to give them all the 'new girl' performance that they are waiting for.

In any case, she has never done lackluster justice. Grandeur is more her forte.


	5. A Modern Myth

Her eyes come together like curtains, dark and finite. It takes but a breath and then all the world becomes a sea of black. She knows at once that she is alone.

The feeling is unimaginable at first. Her body, though she knows herself to be sleep, starts to panic in its rush of presumed sleep paralysis. Quinn pauses defenseless and unmoving in a hollow, enveloped in obsidian, indigo, and grey. In spite of the actual season, it is unbearably cold.

_'CA..V..E FU..REM. C..A..VE FU REM.'_

The chant is throaty and low, a drone that vibrates amidst the very air that she breathes. Swallowing, she realizes that it tickles her throat.

_'. . .FUREM. . .'_

"Hello?" she calls, the girl's own voice startling her as she twists about in vain to discover the source. "Is anybody there?"

Quinn's breath hitches in her windpipe as an onslaught of scents ambush her nose. They are novel to her, and yet she finds it strange that she can place their names. She knows them by heart, and yet she cannot reason as to how this is possible for her. With archaic understanding, she pinpoints the billowing perfumes of cedar and eucalyptus in the air.

_'CA VE. . .'_

"Who are you?" an undetermined source abruptly supplies her with the vague confidence that she requires to raise her voice. "Answer me... please." the latter word is an afterthought, a well-meaning albeit defiant plea.

 _'I AM,'_  comes the guttural rasp.  _'A TEACHER.'_

"But what is your name?" Quinn demands brazenly while craning her head in nearly every possible direction. "and where are you?"

_'YOU. . . MUST LISTEN.'_

"I am!" the blonde remarks insolently. "but you're obviously not listening to me!"

'LISTEN. . .'

Quinn feels her body becoming light, her limbs evaporating.

"Wait!" she calls sharply. The horizon brings a horrid assailment of light. She knows that she is out of time but still she fights to be heard.

'LI. . .STEN.'

But the curtains reopen, and everything is as it had been before.

* * *

The manner in which Quinn's body shudders awake rides the borderline of what could be construed as unspeakable agony. As though suddenly shocked to life, she bolts up right in her bunk, sweat stumbling down the contours of her flushed cheeks and forehead. It takes the young girl a moment to catch her breath before she even thinks to glance at the time.

" _Fff_ -!" she stops herself mid-swear as the realization that she is apparently five minutes late to meet Luna for breakfast fully manifests. Quinn all but throws herself out of bed as she begins to frantically search for her plain skirt and robes. By the time she is dressed and ready, she is quite literally tripping over her own feet to get out of her room and down the stairs to get to the common room.

Still plagued by the dark setting of her dream, she discovers herself to be rather cranky as she wanders up to where Luna stands, peering absentmindedly at the ceiling.

"Oh, Quinn," Luna's pale lips wriggle into a tiny smile. "Good. I had worried perhaps you had gotten lost."

Quinn knits her eyebrows at the strangeness of her words but chooses to say nothing about it. She fears that she lacks the patience this morning.

"Sorry," the apology is merely obligatory and thus half-hearted. "I overslept."

"It's all right," the other witch assures her. "what matters is that you're here now. Are you ready to go?"

It is but a single, ambiguous noise that sends the two girls on their way with Luna merrily taking the lead. Behind her, Quinn attempts the urge the sleep from her eyes as they round the bends and scale the (in Quinn's opinion) quite unnecessary and excessive stair cases. It does not surprise the American witch at all that they are quite a few minutes behind the morning rush when they at last enter the corridor.

Her eyes flutter across the Great Hall, and that raw sensation of discomposure returns to her abdomen. She is reminded of the night of her Sorting, of her hush-hush arrival and handling. It is an absinthal frown that folds the corners of her thin lips in that moment.

"This way, Quinn," Luna carols, her stroll ingenuous and upbeat as she sets her stride toward a particular table.

Quinn sets her jaw intuitively as her eyes glide over their intentional arrival site. She coaxes herself into a display of serene dominance while trailing heedlessly after Luna. As they turn up before the mysterious three from the train, though, Quinn realizes that she needs to essentially beg her tenacity not to crumble. She is inexplicably anxious, but she is equally determined not to let it show.

"Hi, Harry," chirps Luna. "Ron, Hermione."

Each of the trio murmurs their subdued greetings while Quinn readjusts her gaze. She decides that the redhead is the safest to look at, if only because he reminds her of a watered-down and inconspicuous version of her ex-boyfriend, Finn Hudson. It is truly Quinn's mistake, all the same, when her eyes just happen to brush past that Hermione Granger, whom she ascertains is staring, unabashed, directly at her. Her body's reaction is an immediate, condemning rush of color to her skin.

"Oh!" Ron cuts in unexpectedly. "I remember  _you._ From the train, yeah? Quinn, wasn't it?"

Luna is grinning distractedly from her place next to Quinn, thus leaving the task of taking the reins of the conversation to her.

"Yeah," it is all Quinn can think of to say.

"I thought you might like to see each other again," Luna suggests innocuously.

"Of course," Harry smiles somewhat, in spite of the indistinct confusion about his expression.

Quinn yearns to exhale, to get a good breath, but she can still feel those brown eyes on her—prying and invasive. What she would give to shower that Granger girl with a snarling scowl.

"Well, then," continues Luna as she takes her seat across from them and pats the stool next to her for Quinn. "This seems lovely."

An astonishingly physical and ungainly quiver vibrates through Quinn's limbs as she slips down onto the seat. Still unapprised of just whom her eyes can safely meet with, she takes to the food in front of her upon the table.

"This was," Quinn clears her throat, her mouth cotton-dry. "this was Luna's idea."

Luna has already begun to pick at her breakfast which consists of a large helping of eggs and toast. So, it is narrowly a shock to Quinn when she offers nothing in her defense. Furthermore, it undoubtedly appears as though Luna is almost completely oblivious to the level of discomfort that Quinn has reached beside her.

"This is... good."

Surprisingly, it is Hermione's voice that responds to her.

"We- well, we had hoped that Luna would find you. Hadn't we?" the brunette sniffs casually as she fingers for her glass of orange juice. Harry and Ron exchange odd looks before nodding.

"Hermione, I thought you had said something of Luna making friends with her so she w-"

In that same breath, there comes a raucous _thud_ beneath the table, followed by a wheeze of pain from Ron. Quinn's eyes grow round as she looks between the dark and ginger-haired duo. She would have wished it otherwise, but she cannot help how her bottom lip hangs slightly ajar.

"Never mind Ron," Hermione contends. "He often has these... thoughts, you know—thoughts that no one else even understands." Perhaps it is a ruse of Quinn's own mind, but the other girl's closing words sound as though they excavate nearly as a admonition of sorts.

"Hey, look..." Quinn's forehead creases with the effort of her words. "If it's a huge problem, I can eat somewhere else. I didn't exactly ask to be here in the first place, but Luna, she-"

"No," Luna's wind chime voice pipes in before Quinn even has a chance to articulate the gathered frustration that she has been feeling. "They told me I should go to you. Well, Hermione did. I think she was worried, you see."

" _Luna_!"

"Blimey, Hermione. Isn't that what you said before?"

Another muffled thump wiggles the table before Ron's innocent inquiry is silenced (presumably by Hermione's crafty felon of a left foot). With her face eclipsed briefly by her hands, Hermione releases a puff of air from her lungs. Swiping her tongue quickly across her lips, her eyes, at last, meet Quinn's once more.

"I'm sorry. I didn't..." she sighs. "I didn't mean for all of these flips and tricks. I just don't understand. I don't understand why... you're here at Hogwarts—so late. It just doesn't make any sense to me."

A shadow flickers over Quinn's expression. It is painfully evident that she is in no mood for elementary-style games.

"You could've just asked me."

"I had entertained the thought, but..." for once, Hermione gives off an inkling of insecurity.

"So you sic her," Quinn jabs her thumb toward Luna. "after me for information like a dog? Why didn't you just come to me, as I said?"

"I was almost one-hundred percent certain that you didn't know!"

"How could you have possibly known that without having asked me first?" spat the blonde, seemingly unreasonably angry all of a sudden. "In any case, that doesn't even make sense!"

Seated on either side of Hermione, Ron and Harry peer at one another nervously before casting inquisitive glances toward Luna, who seems particularly enthralled with her morning meal. Hermione purses her lips and curls her fingers into fists in either hand.

"Because you seem out of place! That's why!" the brown-eyed girl admits finally. "So, do you want me to ask you, then? Is that it? Well,  _why_? Why are you here? Why now?"

"Hermione..." Harry's tone is firm yet tender, a friendly suggestion to perhaps take it down a few pegs.

Pressure establishes itself upon Quinn's chest. As she sits, jaw and shoulders tense to snap and eyes locked with this bizarre, obnoxious girl, she thinks. She ponders, and she realizes, once again, that she hasn't the faintest clue. Rolling her thumbs against her index fingers, she offers an overindulgent shrug.

"You know what," with poise, she rolls on the balls of her feet out of her seat. "Fine. I have no  _freaking_  idea. No idea  _at all._ "  _I swear to God; she's more annoying than Rachel ever was._ "Satisfied?"

Quinn snarls the last word over her shoulder as she make a beeline for the exit without so much as a second thought. She is overreacting, and she knows it, but she simply cannot stop herself.

A sort of shrill gasp and gargled  _'oh, no'_ beats at her back, but Quinn is persistent and rough with her gait.

"No! You misunderstand!" is the last she hears from the table as she rounds the corner, exiting the Great Hall.

Her first intelligible thought is to gather her things, to collect all of her belongings and just  _go._ Broken inquiries of,  _'What the hell am I even doing here?'_  are all that she can hear in her head after that single strand of rationality (  _pity, pity, pity! poor, pitiful me!_ ).

"Oh, well, if it isn't Miss Fabray," a friendly yet gruff voice greets her suddenly, shaking Quinn free from the toxic grip of her mind. "Fancy meeting you here."

It is the man from her quiet Sorting Ceremony, the one whom had seemingly forgotten to give her his name. She fashions a smile in the manner of a subtle sneer upon her face.

"Hello," she drones quietly. "if you don't mind, I've somewhere I need to be. I'm late."

"In fact," the man concurs, appearing quite chipper. "you do, and you are. Might I lead you there?"

A mixture of a scowl and a wave of confusion wash over Quinn's precise features.

"And why should I?" Quinn grouses. "I don't know you."

The old man's eyebrows present themselves to be quite tickled with the notion as they wiggle upward to complement his genuine smile.

"Albus Dumbledore, Miss Fabray," he extends his name and hand to her for her to accept or deny. "Headmaster here at Hogwarts."

As though acknowledging his previous mistake, he chances to supply her with a bit of a wink. Quinn is left to suck in her breath, to purse her lips.  _Lord!_  had she really been so absentminded as to neglect the identity of the man in charge of this unrestricted funhouse? Mentally, she scolds herself; however, she finds that her eyes are on his hand, dauntless and lucid, before her.

"Sorry," she mumbles tepidly for some reason as she reaches to grasp hold of it.

A thunderous red pulse, a resounding bolt of green, and a cyclical blaze of yellow-to-blue fire surmounts her all at once, sending her shuddering backward, devoid of air. She sputters, grasping at her head which rumbles with white noise while her eyes reel inward. Quinn's virtually on her knees by the time she realizes that she is not alone.

Hands are upon hands upon her. Heaving back to awareness, she discovers herself in the midst of the very same man. She is upright, unperturbed. He has not moved, and their hands are still united. Instinctively, she jerks her hand from his, her green eyes rotund with alarm.

" _What did you_ -"

Dumbledore is studying her, his cheery expression unchanged.

"I must request that you come with me," the white-haired wizard maintains nimbly. "All will become clear shortly, Miss Fabray."

For a moment, Quinn thinks better of it. A mild rebellion flares up within her, and she wonders what the pluses of fleeing from this circus of a situation without ever looking back may be. Then she remembers that she has no idea where she is and, more importantly, what the hell is out there. She is not such a fool that she has not been listening and observing. There are some rather heinous and unorthodox occurrences going on around this loony castle.

"Oh," her lips round as she laps at the inside of her teeth with her tongue. "fine."

Looking as benign as he does enchanted, Dumbledore offers Quinn his arm as he intends to lead her toward a particular staircase. Quinn distracts herself with thoughts of the English weather and the promise of a replacement meal for her untouched breakfast, if only because she does not wish to see the abnormality of her surroundings. Magic, as it is, alarms her still.

Even so, she is not so blind. As they ascend and wind their path along the shifting collections of steps, she notes the familiarity.

 _But I've never been here_ , she reasons, her eyes overwhelmed with the intentionally blurred sights around her. Her skin begins to itch. Fretfully, the witch draws her arms into herself, attempting to soothe the tiny, discomforting prickles. Everything about this Hogwarts just sets her on edge.

"Excuse me, but where are we going?" Quinn asks a moment later, startlingly dubious of even this man's motives.

"We're nearly there, Quinn," Dumbledore presses with a smile. "No need to worry. You'll soon be in capable hands."

Quinn grumbles mildly to herself as she continues to follow the aged Headmaster. One of the last things she wants is to find herself lost in this godforsaken tower; she surmises that she will take her chances with him.

It is because of this that there should be no grand display of bewilderment at Quinn's relief when they arrive before a statue that she can only assume is some sort of witch's charm (or whatever it is they call it).

"It's a gargoyle," the wizard pipes out of the blue, giving Quinn quite a fright.  _Could he read my mind?_ The sickening feeling of phantom ants returns to her arms and legs.  _God, this place gives me the creeps_. "Come now."

The statue revolves at the sound of Dumbledore's voice, allowing them entrance to a small space and stairway. As Dumbledore goes to stand in its midst, Quinn presumes that she is to do the same. Seconds later, after a mere spin, they are in a spacious office-type setting, and Quinn unearths quite shortly that they are not alone. At any rate, it is with a sense of utter dread that Quinn identifies Professor Trelawney first.

"Albus," another, Minerva McGonagall, greets them. "Miss Fabray."

"Just 'Quinn' is fine," winces Quinn.

In this breath, however, she discovers a stranger standing to McGonagall's right. She is a slim woman with mousy hair and pale skin. As Quinn seems to size the woman up, she is offered a winsome smile.

"Lucky for us, Quinn and I happened upon each other just as she was leaving breakfast," Dumbledore explains, ushering Quinn forward gently by her shoulders.

 _'If he only knew'_  is what Quinn longs to groan; however, she anchors her barbed tongue effortlessly.

"Quinn Fabray, I'll have to apologize once again for being so cryptic about your being here. I gather that it must have been quite taxing on the mind."

A bitter taste settles in the back of the young witch's mouth. Though Quinn's lips ache to spill her own diva's lament, she bites back her scathing words and opts for a simple shrug instead.

"Surely," Professor Trelawney speaks now, the spark of an ancient thrill igniting in her eyes. "why, surely, you are curious as to why you are here?"

Fury is brewing in the blonde's belly now.  _Are these people serious? What's with the big production?_  She exhales heavily through her nostrils before locking eyes with the woman that had first cast her into all of this.

"Of course I want to know," she can scarcely hide the astringency in her voice. "I've been here all of seven days without so much as a cover letter."

Each of their expressions flash with something new: remorse, understanding, curiosity, and patience. Needless to say, their blatant display of ease of mind unnerves her, but she can do nothing in spite of it.

"It was necessary as we prepared ourselves, I'm afraid," the white-haired wizard maintains once more. "However, I do believe that the time is now. Professor?" his eyes flit nonchalantly to Trelawney, whom steps forward.

"I have been waiting for you," the bug-eyed woman goes on to say as she steadily inches toward Quinn. "for years, I have been waiting. Oh, I caught glimpses of you, of course, but it wasn't until... until the night of the summer solstice that I finally came to know you, to see you entirely."

Quinn furrows her brows.

"What?"

Indeed,  _what?_   _What is this madwoman going on about?_ The tips of the green-eyed girl's toes are tingling, curling with apprehension. Upon the back of her neck, her hairs stand at attention; her nerves are pulsing and seething with fear.

"You are someone of great value," Trelawney illustrates with an embellished wave of her hand. "to us, to... to  _others_ ," her inflection lowers significantly. "I knew at once, all those five years ago, that I must find you! But the clues, they were, well, they were so vague. I hadn't known your face until that night, until Midsummer's Night."

Openly now, Quinn's body gives a tremble. She feels balmy and on edge.

"Do you truly not know, dear? What you are capable of?" she is standing just before Quinn now. "What you  _are_?"

"A wi-witch," Quinn stammers defiantly. "That's what you told me. That's why I'm here, apparently."

Four pairs of eyes darken with sympathy, and Professor Trelawney tilts her head flippantly.

"Not just a witch, Quinn Fabray. Not just a witch at all. A Seer. A Seer with the potential for greatness. For renown."

"A... Seer?"

"You are a gifted witch, Quinn," there is a rush of color to the professor's cheeks. "a witch with the ability to tap into her Inner Eye to peer into the future. That is why I knew to go to you; that is why you are important. Your slumbering talent is both brilliant and potentially dangerous! I would know, as I share your calling, dear."

A look of disdain paints itself upon the American teenager's face. Quinn knows that she must be pale, that her eyes must be conveying the bold and damning fear of a child, but she cannot be called upon to care. She  _is_  scared. Hell, she is downright terrified.

"That's insane," Quinn barks. "You... You're full of it; you're all full of it! I don't even know what any of that means! Don't you understand?"

Ignorance makes her turbulent, jounces her courage. Before four virtual strangers, she feels naked and vulnerable, a right science experiment beneath the microscope. Dumbledore steps forward from his place at Minerva McGonagall's left side.

"It's all right to be confused, even to be frightened, but in due time-"

"No," Quinn interjects sharply. "I can't. You don't get it; I just can't. For the week I've been here, I've never felt so lost and alone. You've put me with children! Did you honestly expect them to accept me with open arms? I'm an outsider," her arms fall to her sides. "I shouldn't- I shouldn't be here. I don't even understand what it is you're trying to tell me!"

"But you should," Trelawney tells her hectically. "you are destined for either distinction or precipice! You are wanted- no, needed, here. You will help u-"

"How can I?" snaps Quinn. "I know nothing of your... your world! You may as well have cast a lamb into a pit of lions," then, as an anamnesis: "And telling me that I'll either be able to help you or put myself in danger doesn't exactly sell the idea to me, either!"

Suddenly, Sybill's hands grasp for hers, and Quinn does not move nor breathe. Their eyes, for a moment, lock, and Quinn dares to peer into the older woman's. In spite of their obscurity, they are deep and vast. Quinn nearly feels as though she can be consumed by this fleeting glance, that she could find herself too far gone to be found should she linger too long.

"You saw it, yes?"

"Saw  _what_?"

"The fire, the thunder, the lightning- you felt it, did you not?"

Her hands are overwhelmed by Trelawney's as they stand so uncomfortably close. Quinn's breathing intensifies, and she discovers herself increasingly overwrought. Her heart careens into the swell of her chest, and she needs to swallow to pass the knot in her throat.

"How did you-"

"Never mind that!" Sybill bats her unspoken worry away. "Did you or did you not see the Prophecy?"

"I- I don't know. When he," Quinn's nervous eyes find Dumbledore for a moment before traveling back to Trelawney. "when he touched me, I saw-"

"Yes, you saw?"

"It threw me backward, like I was fighting it... but I wasn't, because I was inside myself, I guess. There was fire and thunder, like you said, with colors. Red, blue-"

"-green and yellow."

"Yes..." heaves Quinn uncertainly.

"She's it," the Divinations professor sustains poignantly. "She is the one, Professor Dumbledore."

"Are you absolutely certain, Sybill?" McGonagall inquires laboriously.

"Yes. Yes, she is the one. This is the very girl from all of my visions!"

The resolve that she had come in with feels as though it is slipping away from her, gliding like dry sand through her fingers. Quinn watches as they all chatter excitedly with one another. Her mind feels cracked, exhausted.

"Emmeline," Professor Trelawney beckons, her searing eyes still on Quinn as she at long last releases the blond witch's hands. The previously nameless witch shifts toward, her dark eyes resting securely on Quinn. Nonetheless, it is Dumbledore that brings forth the explanation.

"Quinn, this is Emmeline Vance, a great healer and colleague of mine."

"A pleasure," Emmeline extends her greetings with a mere nod. Quinn is silently thankful to avoid a handshake and just returns the improper acknowledgement.

"She will be in charge of your developments outside of Divination, which I am more than confident that Professor Trelawney will handle superbly," Albus Dumbledore casts a gratifying look to his long-time staff member.

"But why? Why do I need to learn anything about being..." the word is foreign to her. "a Seer?"

"Because it is who you are," Dumbledore speaks eloquently. "Part of you, at this point in time, Quinn, is locked deep away, keeping you from spreading your proverbial wings to become all of what you were intended to be since birth."

"Why now, though? I know the age that students begin here. I'm five years past!"

"Yes," the Headmaster receives her with legitimate diligence and concern. "Your status has, indeed, been discussed. Regulations are certainly helpful, Miss Fabray, but there are times in which particular clauses must be modified to suit the ultimate needs of the masses. Don't you think?"

"But I know nothing. I might as well be restarting grade school as a full-grown adult."

A glimmer of a smirk replaces his original kind demeanor, and this causes Quinn to worry.

"Don't you worry on that note, my dear. You'll find soon that we'll have you all settled in every manner of the word. Within the coming days, you'll gain your footing."

"But-"

Dumbledore's index finger comes to rest lightly upon his weathered lips.

"I can assure you, Miss Fabray, come the end of this very week, you will no longer be in the dark. I must be unkind once more when I ask you to trust me."

Quinn permits her shoulders to sag. The fight in her, for the time being, is almost entirely absent. Presumably, her silence is taken as absolution.

"Now, Emmeline, as discussed, at the end of this week, I would like to see Miss Fabray back in my office. Guide her well, as I know you will," this is met with a curt nod from the rodent-haired woman. "Perhaps, if it suits her, you can find a sort of mentor within the ranks of our fine students, as well," Professor Dumbledore casts a knowing glance to his old friend as he shuffles toward a mess of parchment.

"Certainly, Professor," Emmeline vows with a heavy blink.

"Very good," he smiles through his words. "Now I would imagine that our Quinn would like a nice spot of breakfast after all of this. Seems as though her first attempt was thwarted by our little run-in with one another."

The room is all grins except for a particular blonde, and as Quinn catches the eye of Professor McGonagall, she decides with malice to trail after the elder witch toward the exit. Quinn's mind is cumbersome. Though she does not speak it aloud, the very last thing that she wishes to do is eat after all of this. Regrettably, Quinn is left to follow the Transfiguration teacher with a sour hole ripping at the walls of her stomach and a plague tearing at her thoughts.

What _ever_  had happened to the simple Quinn Fabray, the Girl Who had Run Away? She feels miscast in this novel role. Perhaps... perhaps they are all wrong. This is what she would prefer, after all.

For if they are correct then she is left with the volatile reality of her situation: she is now Quinn Fabray, the hypocrite, the self-righteous Head Cheerleader, the Christian president of the Celibacy Club who got pregnant at fifteen and then gave her baby away like a coward  _who is also a witch that can apparently see into the future._

To think, in the face of this new identity, she nearly misses Lima, Ohio.


	6. Nothing but a Child

In the day that follows, Quinn finds herself in the midst of a seemingly endless magical quiz bowl. Emmeline Vance, her brand new shadow, has become the primary source of her frustration. The fact that Emmeline presumably acts on orders alone does not comfort Quinn in the slightest, either. In truth, it only intensifies her displeasure. When they aren't rationalizing the differences between Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts, then she is pestering her nonstop with various historical events of the Wizarding world's last century. Quinn feels as though her mind is due to burst at any moment. At any rate, everything is running together as one. To her, a Sickle may as well be English slang for how her stomach feels half the time that Emmeline's running off at the mouth.

It is only by the grace of some higher being that she has even, for a moment, escaped Emmeline's eagle-eye vigilance. Whisked away in the darkest corner of the courtyard, she hides herself with only the generous fold of an elephant's-ear plant. She thinks for a heartbeat that she will have a minute to herself, an opportunity to magic it all away (no pun intended,  _dear god_ , as she has had nearly enough talk of 'magic' to suit her stunted lifetime). Already her pulse is uneven, her mind slightly off its landing.

 _A moment_ , her mind raves,  _if I could only just have_ a moment  _to myself, everything would even out. But, no. How can it?_   _You're a witch, remember? 'Normal' isn't possible anymore_ , Quinn's inner voice is unspeakably cynical. Quinn wholly recognizes her longing for stock in some self-indulgent fantasy, but at the same time, she doesn't mind it so much. If being juvenile is what levels out her sanity, then so be it. Casting her arms away from herself somewhat, her fingertips happen to graze one of the leaves of the decorative plant that conceals her. On some indeterminate grounds, this causes her to frown. Without thinking, she has pitched her face out to the rest of the courtyard, however few inhabit it. Quinn takes in their dull and undefined faces, and she grimaces.

A few Hufflepuffs are coupled and whispering disjointedly, she sees, while a gaggle of Gryffindors are boasting quite exuberantly amongst themselves and ultimately laughing because of it. Quinn wets her lips, powerless to ignore the jealousy that gathers at the center of her stomach. She knows it's impractical, but she observes herself disliking them, nearly  _hating_  them. They laugh and bicker, stumble and play. All at once, she thinks that she yearns for them, as well— absolute strangers as they are. She desires them in a way that she discerns to be rather difficult to verbalize.

Quinn wants them but in a manner in which they would  _understand her_. She wants to know of them and for them to know of her. She wants them to call her by name, to accost her as they pass regularly through the halls _._ It's selfish, but she wants their sympathy, their appreciation. She covets their normality.

Thus is why she resents them. Quinn Fabray does not pine for anyone. It has always, in Quinn's eyes, happened in reverse. Such is her nature; such is how things had always been—until her unplanned pregnancy, until Hogwarts.

"Cutting class?"

It is a debatably masculine voice that commands her awareness in that instant. Narrowly batting a lash, she demands that her eyes merely gaze from their corners to perceive a platinum-haired Slytherin peering at her from behind a miniature brick dividing.

"If that's what you want to hear," Quinn quips promptly, her impression disinterested as she averts her eyes. In a moment's time, the nameless boy has surpassed the diminutive wall that had separated them to join her a few feet away.

"Rather cocky for a Ravenclaw," he decides, sizing her up with a reprehensible sneer.

Quinn laughs meanly. If she hasn't any time for her own feelings of contempt, then she certainly hasn't any time for anyone else's. Her wicked tongue goes in for another killing swipe.

"What do you want?"

A look of thorough revulsion overtakes the boy's features. By the way that his brows set up shop so crudely above his eyes, Quinn reasons that she must have just disgraced at least a generation or two of his family by simply speaking.

"You'll do right to watch your tongue, girl," barks the wizard. "My father won't take kindly to a First Year such as you acting so self-righteously toward a Malfoy."

Quinn arcs one of her eyebrows considerately. Though the surname rings the tiniest bell in her mind, she simply refuses to allow this smug bastard the satisfaction that he is sure to put on should she respond with such presumption.

"And how do you know that I'm a First Year,  _Mr._ Malfoy?" Quinn proposes sardonically, her vernacular a sliver of belligerence.

" _Draco_ ," he hisses, narrowing his grey eyes to near serpentine slits. "The better question is, 'who doesn't know?'"

His tone is unkind, but Quinn is all but surprised at just how much it does not bother her. As a matter of fact, she is humored, and it shows. She cannot help but grin.

"I suspect you know my name already, then. Good," she comes to this conclusion with a pretentious smile. "Saves me the trouble."

"Don't play coy with me," Draco attempts to usurp control of the conversation by side-stepping to stand directly in front of Quinn whom continues to beam caustically. "If I knew your name, I would have addressed you, you bloody American swine."

"We're calling each other pet names now, are we?" Quinn ponders intriguingly aloud. "Well then, how does  _Lady_  sound for you?"

"Why you sniveling, little b-!"

"That's enough!" another voice joins the conversation so swiftly that both Draco and Quinn are caught off their guards. However, the more severe result comes from the aftershock of the person herself. Before the pair of them stands Hermione Granger, looking as unmoved and disgruntled as ever. What business has she with either of them? Quinn is beside herself with resentment.

"This doesn't concern you, Granger," Draco spits out the words like festering garbage.

"Actually, I've been told to fetch Quinn by Professor McGonagall," Hermione supplies matter-of-factly, notwithstanding the evident dryness in her timbre. Quinn can feel herself bristling at her particular wording. Is this Granger girl  _mocking her_  with her own dog jokes now? She scowls wordlessly as Draco seems to consider his options with an expression of sour indecision. He is quick to turn to Quinn.

"I'll deal with you later," Draco announces sharply as he turns on his heel to leave the two girls by themselves behind the elephant's-ear plant. Quinn can't even begin to pretend that she has the faintest clue what the strange boy is going on about. Hence, she shifts her attention now to Hermione.

"That boy," the brunette appears to mutter beneath her breath all while rolling her eyes.

"I don't suppose you expect me to thank you," Quinn extends the words icily.

"No, I don't," her lilt is flat.

"Good."

"Now, if you're quite finished being unnecessarily rude," Hermione goes on to say with a disapproving frown. "I've been asked to tutor you."

All of Quinn's internal organs feel as though they dropped to her feet.

" _You_?" she exhales sorely. "Why  _you_? Why not Luna?"

Hermione unmistakably rolls her eyes at Quinn's retort.

"Honestly, I haven't the foggiest. It was- it was on Dumbledore's orders," she sighs. "Now, can you please just come with me?"

Something clicks in Quinn's mind.

" _You_  are my student mentor?"

"Brilliant deduction," gripes Hermione. "Would you like to follow me to the library, or not?"

Quinn hesitates. This is not the first time she has faltered in the other girl's presence, but it is certainly the most profound incidence. Part of her wants to scoff, to laugh boorishly in Hermione Granger's face as she shoves her aside for the sake of returning to her dormitory solitarily. Then there is the other half of her, the half that wants to follow, to be mildly obedient if not all-together complaisant. She wants to press the issue of Hermione's purpose in her new life, the frantic familiarity that radiates throughout Quinn's body each time that they are forced to meet one another's eyes. She wants to combat this debilitating loneliness with someone, anyone.

"I don't have a choice," is all she can conjure up.

Hermione only turns, beginning to walk toward where Quinn assumes is Hogwarts' library. Inaudibly, the former cheerleader falls in step to some extent behind her. They are unreservedly silent as they walk. Between implicit strangers, Quinn finds that she has nothing substantial to submit. How the socially mighty have fallen, indeed. Quinn could have never imagined that she, an ex-Queen Bee, would one day shed her robes to harvest the shoes of a commoner- no, to be rendered wordless and inarticulate among them, even. As queer as it is, she just about feels the surreptitious pressure of nervous pin-prickles along her exposed flesh. Whether it is illness, apprehension, or –  _heaven forbid!_  – excitement, it is difficult to ascertain. She knows only that her legs feel light as though made of cloud-wisps.

As they trail past the corridors filled with the blasé eyes of bleary students, Quinn feels a horrid pang of nostalgia. For an ephemeral camera-flash of a memory, she is back in Lima. She is in her well-fitting Cheerios uniform, and she is  _Queen_. They adore her, and they fear her. Most of all, they  _revere_  her. It is superficial, but it feels right. Moreover, she is  _happy._

The internal film strip is short-lived, of course, for soon the recollection sputters to black, and she is unseen. She is nothing. She is forgotten. She is herself but a memory.

She is alone, and she is miserable.

"Here will do." Hermione's voice grounds her, leaves her temporarily baffled. She realizes that they have arrived at a modest corner of the visibly ample library. There is a small table before them, a set of chairs. Without so much as a word, Quinn takes her seat at Hermione's right.

Their new placement greets them with another round of exalted silence. Among the pair of them, only the shuffling of parchment denotes any sort of animated life. Quinn, her eyes roving sightlessly over a stack of bland-looking books, is only vaguely aware of Hermione's quickened breath beside her. She seems edgy, and her fingers often tremble (though the motion is sporadic). In the face of herself, Quinn's interest is inexplicably piqued.

"We'll begin with the First Wizarding War."

Her voice is firm, full of strict purpose and of unbridled value. Quinn rolls her fingers over the swell of the wooden desk before them.

"Did he tell you?"

"Pardon?"

All of the oxygen sounds as though it has been expelled from Hermione's lungs, and Quinn observes with candid intrigue as the brunette's fingers quake. Momentarily, her immaculate poise has been spun off its axis, and Hermione is left to grapple swiftly with her writing utensil to regain her cool. Something about this brings a flammable smirk to Quinn's face, however fleeting it is.

"About why you're 'tutoring," Quinn subjects herself to dual air quotes. "me."

"You are a new student," Hermione explains to her simply, her eyes back on the text book in front of them. The stiff nature of her right hand is seen clearly by Quinn. "and I was asked to catch you up, to show you the basics, to-"

 _There she is_ , Quinn's mind flounders promisingly,  _setting our boundaries_. The blonde knows that she, too, can draw these fine lines. She once had been the master of the act.

"-to act as a Big Sister of sorts while you get acquainted with the school."

"Big Sister?" parrots Quinn, wriggling her eyebrows weirdly. "I've already got one of those. I don't think I want or need another."

A shade of red flourishes Hermione's cheeks as her fingertips fumble for a page of the history book.

"I reckon that you knew precisely what I intended by those words," she indicates brashly. A slur of a grin smears itself across Quinn's face.

"Let's just stick with tutor or mentor," she purls, surprised by her own slip of tone with this girl.  _Stop being stupid,_  her mind barks crossly.  _This isn't Rachel Berry, this is-_ she stops her thoughts in their tracks. Suddenly she is fifteen and lucid again, a slave to her incomprehensible lapses of feelings.  _No. Stop right there, you big idiot_ , is the warning growl that reverberates through the canyons of her skull.

"Fine," Hermione says at last, decidedly through with the matter. "Now, as I was saying... the first Wizarding War was-"

"There was a second?"

Flustered, Hermione rolls her lips over one another before permitting her eyes to rove Quinn up and down in displeasure. Quinn makes a mental note that this Granger girl evidently  _despises_  being interrupted. It is wonderful information for a girl whom has always been enticed by a game of cat-and-mouse.

"I would certainly hope not," sniffs Hermione, still visibly bothered by the interception of her introduction. "but with the way things are at the present, I-"

This time she stops of her own accord. For millisecond, she looks lost in apparently deep however brief thought. Quinn can't help but to cant her head slightly, locks of blond finding their way draped across her cheek.  _More talk of war_ , she bemoans mutely. What have these magical folk gotten her into? She feels bothered, as though pit against an itch that she can't even reach much less begin to scratch.

"No. No matter," the dark-haired witch chooses her words cautiously. "No matter at all. Now is not the time for that."

 _But when,_ she hisses internally.  _When is the time? As I'm on the frontlines of your armies with nothing but a stick in one hand and prayer beads in the other?_  A foreign sensation settles within Quinn; she's frightened, and it's a monster she doesn't wish to feed at the moment.

Regardless, it can be noted that Quinn's eyes have not left Hermione since their arrival here in the library. Even now, as she observes in brutal quiet, she takes record of the other girl's demeanor. It's odd, how the blond teenager recalls vivid memories of her old high school, of Rachel Berry. In that instant, Hermione is distracted by something, and this is unusual for her, Quinn surmises. Past those brown eyes and hair, she manages a glimpse of her former classmate, Rachel, just as she sees that something is bothering Hermione profoundly. Yet, quite unlike Rachel Berry, Hermione Granger feels the need to keep it under lock and key.

Quinn's at a loss again. What is this now? the second, the third - no, the fourth time? Her lips form a thin line, and she straightens her posture. All of the words, the phrases, and the syllables in her mind are jumbled and unintelligible. They form not recognizable thoughts but incoherent conjugations of her untapped and rather frazzled mind. Her lips, presently unharnessed, set themselves free of conscious charge.

"I'm a Seer," the announcement is sudden, entirely unexpected by even Quinn. All at once, she thinks to grasp at them, to strangle the callous edict with her fingers. But she can't. She knows this, too. She is left to chomp venomously upon her own tongue, mentally damning her blunder of judgment.

The damage is done, of course. Quinn can see it now, the paintbrush of fear and shock that dribbles down the arc of the other girl's chin. The words have not gone unnoticed. They are free, unclothed and disbanded.

"What?"

_Doubt. Worry._ _Prudence._

Hermione doesn't believe her; she's bewildered, judging by her rapidly fading initial expression. Call it sawed-off  _schadenfreude_ , but Quinn collects a great deal of pleasure in her tutor's confusion. The blonde toys with her quill nonchalantly, feigning her vague unfamiliarity to the antiquated writing utensil under Hermione's now stern gaze. She fiddles with the feather, pretending to count the small fibers.

"That's why I'm here," Quinn's nuance is impoverished and patronizing. At last, she has the advantage. She possesses knowledge that someone at this wretched school does not.  _Finally_ Quinn has the upper hand, an explanation. "I'm a Seer."

Again, her old friend Silence accosts her. Needless to say, Quinn notices the surge of bile to her throat, the twinge of acid at the back of her mouth. To say that she is irritated with the lot of the circumstances is gravely unfair to Quinn herself. A sinister edge sketches lines of dissatisfaction across her forehead.

"You asked for an explanation. So there. I told you."

"But Dumbledore never said-" Hermione pauses, her eyebrows pressed tightly toward one another. "and Professor McGonagall!"

Quinn wishes that she could be reveling still over the girl's frantic bewilderment and disposition. Her mind feels caught between a pair of phantom hands, pulling her this way and yet yanking her back all at once. The sensation is bitter and sweet, infuriating and alluring.

"And I don't even," Hermione is rambling again, her eyes unseeing as she housekeeps her thoughts and sorts them into tidy rows within herself. "Does Trelawney have anything to do with this? Her level of sanity is highly questionable, that woman."

Quinn scoffs, though - in silence - she agrees. Professor Trelawney didn't necessarily exude competence in the manner that she spouts off the prophecies of tea leaves and glass balls.

"Jealousy is very unbecoming, you know," growls Quinn, feeling a stab of the sentiment herself as she looks elsewhere.

"I am nothing of the sort!" and, in truth, Quinn has a feeling that she isn't. In retrospect, it had been a rather childish sort of thing to say. She cannot, however, bring herself to feel remorseful. Instead, she looks ahead as Hermione marches verbally on. "I'm merely telling you what everyone in this school knows to be true, and-"

"And?"

"Divination is a rather dubious subject," rationalizes the brown-haired student. "Experts are in a relative disagreement on its exactitude."

Her comment in itself is harmless. Nevertheless, when placed in conjunction with the entirety of the state of affairs, it unexpectedly enrages Quinn. After having been unwillingly pulled into this world, she is not about to have someone doubt her only purpose so far into the waters. She is now waist-deep in this alien world; the last thing she'll have at her back is a teeth-chattering shark with an opposing agenda.

"Just because you're a skeptic-"

"Yes, I am," Hermione sniffs plainly, her feathers evidently rather ruffled, as well. "I'd prefer concrete evidence as opposed to irrationally blind faith."

A nerve has been plucked.

"Well, that's foolish of you!" Quinn asserts, spinning about in her chair to face the witch. "You're closing off your mind to something just because you don't have a damned text book or written word to prove it? That's short-sighted and useless."

Hermione is staring at her now, eyes rounded.

"Did you ever stop to think for a moment that maybe I'd like a concrete reason, as well, for my being here? I'm not  _like_  you. I wasn't born into all of this. Hell, I wasn't even born into this  _country_. If I'm being honest with you, though I don't think you deserve it: I'm uncomfortable. This world- it's, well, it's not mine. I don't understand anything!" Quinn's previously tense eyebrows are steadily relaxing now, despite herself. "So I don't need your tripe. I'm telling you only what they told me, and I'd be willing to bet they've more experience with this... this  _world_ than you."

Her golden waves of hair brush her rose-tinted cheeks while she shakes her head. For a single moment, she allows an airy laugh from her throat. Even Hermione appears disbelieving of the abrupt change of heart.

"It's funny, isn't it? I'm dropped headfirst into your world without so much as a parachute, and they expect me to understand when I've never felt more misplaced, and then-" Quinn stops.  _What am I doing?_ she raves inwardly, abruptly embarrassed. "Nothing. Sorry. Just- sorry. Forget all that."

Thinking that there is no other option, Quinn collects her wits about her and prepares to leave, only to have Hermione grasp at her sleeve. For half a second their eyes meet and Quinn doesn't dare blink.

"You're rude," she says frankly, and Quinn realizes that both of them share the subtlest of grins. "but you're right. I accept your apology, and... offer mine, as well."

Quinn shrugs, feeling awkward with all these mixed and tumultuous emotions floating around so liberally.

"Just- don't worry about it. I'd rather not talk about any of it again," her mouth is arid as she thoughtlessly gropes for one of her blond, crown-like braids in a display of anxiousness.

"Suit yourself," submits Hermione as she offers Quinn's seat back to her. "but you will need to one of these days. You're aware of that, yes?"

All the American witch wants to do is roll her eyes. She can scarcely comprehend just how similar this girl is to Rachel Ber— _Rachel, Rachel, Rachel_ – god damn, the singer is like a ghost in her mind, zip-lining through her thoughts like a screaming banshee.

"Yeah," her tone is noncommittal. Quinn has no intention to bring up those worries of hers again. "I guess."

Once more they settle, with Hermione preparing to strike up her lesson again when a thought looks to have hit her.

"Oh, and you'll do well to stay away from Draco Malfoy."

* * *

Some days are better than others, she finds. More often than not, she's always with someone else- be it Emmeline Vance, Hermione Granger, or Professor Trelawney. They push her, and she bends without question. Listlessly, as though gliding along the crest of the lazy sea, she allows them to guide her. They beckon, and she follows. It's easier that way. In any case, this new sense of being gives her a moment's distraction from herself. She doesn't have to think when they feed her the lines.

"Once more."

"I told you I don't know."

Seated once more in the courtyard with Emmeline Vance, Quinn confronts herself as the victim of yet Wizarding world test. Her mind is distant, daydreaming. With her legs pulled into herself, she stares off, across the lot. The very last thing she longs to allow in her mind is the talk of evil wizards and the struggle for house elf suffrage. Even so, in spite of her charge's evident displeasure, Emmeline appears patient. She is smiling, from what Quinn can gather from her peripheral vision, and this annoys Quinn.

"You don't give yourself nearly enough credit, Miss Fabray," Emmeline suggests kindly, allowing the words to linger in the air for a moment. "I will ask you again: what is a boggart?"

Quinn releases an exaggerated puff of air as she combs her brain for the answer. They have been lingering on the subject of the Dark Arts for a while now.

"A shape-shifting creature," her tone is parched. "it turns into whatever it is you're most afraid of."

A look of pride flashes across Emmeline's face.

"There you are. See? I told you that you knew it."

In her present state of being, Quinn can barely bring herself to care about becoming engrossed in someone else's culture. It is all too much. Had she been given a more generous amount of time to study as opposed to daily cramming sessions, she may be more willing. As it is, however, she hasn't been here two weeks and already she feels as though the world is expected of her. It matters not how immature she realizes herself to be. Quinn's fixated on her own perils, her own wants and needs. How can they expect her to care for others'? It angers her.

"All will be well, you know," Emmeline suggests innocently, catching Quinn's eyes as they drift away from the clouds toward the older woman. Quinn doesn't even try to disguise the tartness of the laugh that follows.

"You wouldn't be the first student Dumbledore has entrusted with a rather grand responsibility," ventures the dark-haired witch.

"How good of him," snaps Quinn, "saddling his war horses with children. Must be a brave man."

Emmeline's composure is a stronghold. Even Quinn admits in silence that she is impressed. The woman doesn't even so much as flinch at her rudeness. She merely exhales.

"It isn't at all that," her mentor explains softly. "There is but one other child that he has called upon, Miss Fabray, and one child alone- and this was not of Professor Dumbledore's choosing."

"What do you mean?" Quinn's gaze has shifted to her black dress shoes, dull and in need of a good shining, she ponders.

"These things..." Emmeline falters, grappling with her phrasing. "no one wishes for them to happen. They merely... do."

"What? Children fighting wars?" the blond witch growls.

For once, Emmeline's eyes appear to flash.

"What is your fixation with war, Miss Fabray?" her inflection is worrisome and perplexed. Quinn, feeling somewhat flustered, permits her legs to fall from where they had been perched previously with her knees beneath her chin.

"I don't have one," she affirms briskly. "It's just-...I feel like-... I don't know."

"Go on," Emmeline encourages her, seeming genuinely curious. Quinn's lungs deflate in her irritation.

"I feel drafted."

 _There. I said it. Happy?_ The American teenager says nothing else as she looks ahead of herself again, ignoring Emmeline for the time being. For a moment, the pair of women sit without saying anything, and Quinn is more thankful for it.

"How do you mean, Miss Fabray?" the inquiry comes a good thirty seconds later. "There is no war being fought at the moment. You're perfectly safe."

"That's a load of  _crap_ ," Quinn sneers, but Emmeline's expression remains unchanging. "All this talk of 'troubled times' and 'past problems.' Don't think I don't hear the whispering, all this talk of people called _Death Eaters_ , or whatever. I'm not stupid."

"No," Emmeline agrees with her gently. "I didn't say that you were," the mousy witch turns to join Quinn in peering ahead of them. "You're, in fact, a very perceptive young girl."

"I'm no  _girl_ ," she corrects her hotly.

"Young  _lady_ ," smiles her teacher. "Times are dark, Miss Fabray, but that doesn't mean we're in constant danger. Powerful witches and wizards are out there at any given moment, watching and waiting. There's no safer place than Hogwarts."

Feeling childish and petty, Quinn sniffs. Emmeline is keen to grin, she spots. Did  _nothing_  bother this woman? How very... obnoxious.

"Nothing binds you to us, Quinn," Emmeline tells her adamantly, her gaze resting unflinchingly upon the new-found Seer. "We brought you here only to introduce you to our world. If it is your desire at any time... you may go, for we cannot hold you."

"I don't have a choice," she repeats the words that she used as justification to follow Hermione's given orders.

"You do. A choice that is yours and yours alone to make."

"But that Trelawney said-"

"- _what_  my colleague said is not paramount to the decision that you must make. A reluctant Seer may as well be no Seer at all."

Quinn feels a right juvenile in the face of an extraordinarily  _adult_  selection. She is both annoyed and unsure. How the hell is she supposed to make this sort of verdict? She knows nothing. Her mind is blank and unaccustomed to a life as a witch, a Seer. It is all too much too soon, and it makes her head pound with irresolution and a sense of requirement- but  _why_? Quinn owes these right strangers nothing at all. Damn Protestant guilt.

"I'll think on it," comes Quinn's detrimental grumble.

Emmeline dips her head somewhat and flashes a flavorable smile in Quinn's direction.

"That's very kind of you," she speaks fondly.

"If you say so."

Though something bothers Quinn still. Her thoughts scramble hastily back to Emmeline's previous remark, something about another- a child, maybe.

"What was that you said," Quinn stumbles over her wording, though she tries poorly to feign indifference. "something about there being another child."

"Not a child anymore," a deep expression of a sentiment Quinn cannot decipher flattens Emmeline's lips. "He's a boy now, very nearly a young man."

"Yes, okay," the blonde bats mentally at her mentor's useless terminology. "but why's he so special? What do they need him for?"

"That is not for me to say," Emmeline's voice is hushed, and this multiples Quinn's curiosity and aggravation. "We'll be needing to get you ready to meet with Professor Dumbledore tomorrow, Miss Fabray-"

"What is he? Is he a Seer, too?"

Caught off her mark, Emmeline's rock-solid composure appears to sway slightly.

"No, he is not," she offers acutely. "but we really must-"

"At least tell me his name."

"I do not know that it is in my right to-"

"What's so harmful about a name?" Quinn laments irritably.

"You cannot know what-" Emmeline considers her thoughts. "In these lands, there are names, names that are not spoken."

"That's all fine and great," the younger witch utters in exasperation. "but I don't want  _those_  names. I want to know his name, the boy's."

Emmeline rises to her feet, her eyes looking at nothing as her mind visibly ticks away. For some unknown reason, Quinn feels drawn to rise to her feet to, to stare expectantly at the witch who had been entrusted to her.

"Very well," she sounds tired now. "his name is Harry Potter, and he is The Boy Who Lived."


	7. Locum Memoriae

Sleep is no longer a form of escape for Quinn Fabray. When she sleeps, she dreams of calamity, of the boy Harry Potter, and of cedar-laced eucalyptus. When she dreams, she is wreathed and flanked by anxiety. As though funnels of grey cumulonimbus clouds twine perilously around her neck, she breathes laboriously; she tosses and turns.

In a blanket of sheen sweat, she rouses herself with a start, unable to bear the thought of another minute's worth of these growing night terrors. Kicking her legs free of her tangled navy sheets, Quinn tugs absentmindedly at her tussled hair. Judging by the vacant light from the window, the sun is working toward dawn. She exhales and quietly suspends her legs off the edge of her four-poster. Quinn recollects hazily that today is the day that she is to meet with Professor Dumbledore early on.

'But what about my classes?' she had flatly inquired of Emmeline Vance just yesterday.

'Taken care of,' had been all her mentor had said before disappearing toward an unfamiliar staircase.

Quinn thinks little else of it. Rolling her neck slightly, her hazel eyes scan mildly over the still-sleeping forms of her fellow First Year roommates: Emalia Bundy, Juniper Summers, and Temperance Starky. With a toothy sneer, she thinks of how each are eleven and each are equally infuriating.

Emalia is a stocky, blue-eyed girl, squared in jaw and stature. With a basket of arrogance set to rival Rachel Berry on her nastiest days, the little chestnut-haired Ravenclaw does little else other than rave about her own academic accomplishments. If she isn't going off at the mouth about how her father Bradley Senior is the best Auror that the Ministry's seen in ages, then she is surely barking about how she herself is surely on track to become the greatest future Headmistress that Hogwarts has ever seen. Quinn muses that if the small witch knows how to stop talking then it is an exercise that she rarely practices.

Then there is Juniper Summers—or June, as she prefers to be called. Out of the three, Quinn surmises that she is the most tolerable. Though, perhaps, the better word is  _pitiable_. In truth, she is a rather pretty child if not for her bland and woeful expression. Her eyes are green as ripened spring, and her hair is an interesting set of bouncy auburn curls. It doesn't appear to be in June's nature to make any degree of eye contact. This is coupled with the fact that she also doesn't see it fit to speak much... or, at all, truly. Now that Quinn considers it, she realizes that she doesn't think she has ever heard the eleven-year-old's voice. With a humored and lopsided grin, Quinn decides that this is possibly why June is her unspoken 'favorite' of the three.

Last, but certainly not least, is Temperance Starky—a girl that Quinn can safely say is one of the weirdest people that she has ever in her life encountered. Temperance reminds Quinn abstractedly of her old acquaintance, Tina Cohen-Chang, in that it would appear that the tall witch's preferred color is black. With an olive skin tone and very nearly intimidating black eyes, the medium-built Temperance seems to change hair color almost daily. Quinn has seen it black, blue, red, gold, silver, neon green, and multi-colored. However, through unfocused observation, it has become clear to Quinn that Temperance's favorite hair color of choice is, unsurprisingly, jet black. When Temperance speaks, she growls. She appears untrusting but undoubtedly intelligent. Even so, Quinn blatantly avoids her in all manners of the word.

Quinn's relationship with her dorm mates goes about as far as that of a camp counselor to her little campers. They are a burden, but the undeniable maternal instinct in Quinn keeps the blonde from being too terrible to them. The girls on the other hand seem to relish in the fact that they share a bunk with an older student. On more than one occasion during her two weeks here has Quinn caught them (mostly Emalia) sharing or even outright bragging this bit of information to their fellow First Years, particularly those of Slytherin House. Quinn would be lying if she says this isn't amusing to her, of course, if not a little endearing. Though, Quinn tries to ignore the fact that Temperance's way of boasting is usually some form of a threat to stave off older witches and wizards, bullies of hers, no doubt.

Nevertheless, other than the fact that she would rather be in the presence of those her age, Quinn supposes that she has no real issue with her roommates. Through all their yapping, gawking, and gaping, they are perplexingly comforting to her. Though undoubtedly young still herself, Quinn feels herself caught in a bubble of innocent youth when among them. For a moment, she can shelve away her time-consuming, more mature worries and pretend that she is eleven again. Drunk off their naivete, she can play to forget, at least for a little while.

This morning, however, she is left with herself and herself alone. Rising inaudibly to her bare feet, she treads light-footed to the window. With her hand pressed to the glass, Quinn peers silently outside, watching with detached intrigue as a gaggle of geese traverse across the skyline in their characteristic V. It is only a moment later that she has spun soundlessly about, deciding lamely that she may as well dress and head down to the commonroom for a bit. In any event, pantomiming about the room as the younger girls snore isn't something she would prefer. Accordingly, Quinn scrounges through her trunk and collects her outfit for the day: her pleated grey skirt; collared, button-down white shirt; grey sweater; blue-and-silver tie; black tights; black dress shoes; and a black cloak. Quinn is not yet used to the fashion choices of the Wizarding world, but they nonetheless fascinate her.

Quinn has dressed herself within minutes. Standing before the dormitory's bathroom mirror, she combs her fingers through her hair which is still disheveled and rather unkempt. Sighing somewhat, she trails her brush through her locks of blond and frowns at the fuss of many sleep-induced knots. It takes her a moment to tame it before she sets to work and makes quick time of forming two tight braids like a crown around her head. She surveys herself swiftly in the mirror before coming to the conclusion that this will have to do. Quinn applies only moderate make-up to her face before popping one-and-a-half propranolol into her mouth and dry-swallowing them on her way out of the bathroom.

The Ravenclaw commonroom is empty save a single boy curled up by the fire, asleep, with an open book in his lap. Quinn rolls her eyes unthinkingly as she passes and promptly exits the eagle-knocker door. Her foot has barely touched the ground before she finds herself gasping, caught off-guard by the very near face of someone else.

"L-Luna!" hisses Quinn, her heart (which had been pleasantly slowed by her fast-acting betablocker) suddenly racing rather uncomfortably in her chest.

"Hi, Quinn," Luna greets her blithely.

"D-Don't  _do_  that!" exhales the blonde, her hands squeezing into rigid, fretful fists at her sides.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Quinn," she laughs. "Did I startle you? I was just waiting for you."

"Waiting for me?" one of Quinn's eyebrows shifts upward as she at last stumbles heavily out of the door. "Luna, it's barely dawn."

"I know," the grey-eyed witch is smiling at her still. "but I was visiting Helena, you see," catching Quinn's puzzlement, Luna adds: "- you know, she's the ghost -" at this word, Quinn goes white. "- of Ravenclaw Tower, and, well, Hermione let slip to me that you had a meeting with Dumbledore early this morning the other day between classes, and so I thought perhaps you would like some company before you had to go."

Quinn, as indifferent as she is when others speak to her, catches only the words: Helena, ghost, Hermione, Dumbledore, and company. She remains as white as a specter herself.

"Wait, what does Hermione have to do with any of this?" asks Quinn, unable to obstruct herself in time.

"She told me," Luna is rocking distractedly on the balls of her feet now. "about your meeting, you know."

"But how did she-" the American witch stops herself successfully this time and gives herself a moment to rethink and to consider her words carefully. After a moment, her gaze hardens: " _Trelawney_."

"Well, I don't know anything about that," insists her fellow Ravenclaw, looking genuinely puzzled, "but she merely passed along the information that you would be rousing early today for some sort of essential get-together with Professor Dumbledore, so I figured that I could offer you some companionship. She herself encouraged it, but I assured her that it was my pleasure. I rather like you, you see."

In all honesty, Quinn is confused still but just as well comes to the conclusion that she doesn't want to press the issue any further. It is too early in the morning to comprehend all of this in full. Therefore, she shrugs.

"Sure," she breathes the word in dismissal. "okay."

"Would you like to go for a walk, maybe?" suggests Luna, to which Quinn merely nods, visibly unconcerned with whatever it is they would decide upon. "to the Astronomy Tower, I think."

"Isn't that against your rules, or something?" Quinn yawns explicitly as they begin to walk.

"Well, I didn't say we were going up it, did I?"

Luna is cheerier still as she changes her pace to a jolly skip. Not even Quinn can conceal the subtle grin that tickles at the corners of her lips. Without speaking, she joins Luna at her left side.

"How've you been, then, Quinn?" this prompt from Luna is surprisingly gentle. Oddly enough, it causes Quinn to bristle somewhat. She is both unaccustomed and unfriendly to the idea of being coddled, verbally or otherwise.

"Fine."

There is a heartbeat of silence and then—

"I don't know that that's necessarily true," Luna observes with such innocence that Quinn is taken aback. Really, what does it matter? Surely her welfare isn't something that needs doting upon. At any rate, Quinn is quite certain that she can handle herself just fine, regardless of the circumstances.

"What do you mean?" inquires Quinn, an edge of suspicion adding itself to her already taut voice.

"I am not trying to press anything out of you that you don't want to share with me, Quinn, but... we are housemates," the conversation is bizarrely casual as they walk side-by-side through the abandoned halls away from the west wing. "I do think of you."

" _Why_?" Quinn knows her sharp retort is rude, but she can't prevent herself again. The word flings itself from her tongue faster than she can think to apprehend it.

Luna's reaction is immediate yet unanticipated. Through the back of her palm, the girl giggles softly and smiles. She flashes Quinn a look that suggests she is harebrained for even thinking to ask such a question.

"You're like a friend," is what Luna's telling her next. "and I care for everyone, especially those that are like friends to me."

Quinn furrows her brows in misunderstanding. ' _Like_ a friend'? What the hell did that mean? She stares at Luna with an air of acute bewilderment. For a second, Quinn wonders to herself if Luna is keen to always talk in these peculiar riddles.

"I guess you're as close to a friend as I have at this school," states Quinn dismissively, attempting to roll the issue of her impending isolation aside. She doesn't want Luna's, or  _anyone's_ , pity.

"See?" Luna chirps, slowing her skipping down a little to a feather-footed glide. "Do I need to ask you for permission to inquire of your well-being, then, Quinn?" It is  _weird_ , downright inexplicable, how genuine and curious Luna makes this sound. Perhaps Quinn has finally gone off her rocker, but it sounds as though Luna is, with any trace of sarcasm, questioning whether or not she can ask how Quinn is doing.

" _Permission_ ," Quinn echoes the word incredulously as she slumps her arms, crossed, over her chest. "That's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

"I can't stop you."

"Oh, but you can," the smaller Ravenclaw insists. "Why would I ever bother you with a question that you don't want to hear?"

"Because," persists Quinn stupidly. "it's just what people do."

"That's a rather silly reason."

Once more, Quinn rolls her shoulders in a weak shrug. All of this roundabout talk is making her head hurt. At this point, she really just wants to avert the subject, to talk of something more sensible.

"Can I just answer your question? About how I've been doing, or whatever."

"If you like," Luna larks breezily, her walk a playful sashay again.

Quinn pauses to think. What is a good word to describe how she has been these past few days? 'Fine,' she assumes. 'Frustrated' is a nice way to put it, too. All Quinn knows is that she doesn't want to warrant another enigmatic tangent from Luna. She really is a kind, well-meaning girl, but there are certain things that Quinn simply can't handle as early as dawn.

"Okay," she says at once. It sounds mediocre. It'll do, anyway.

"'Okay'?" her answer is repeated back to her, and for a heartbeat, Quinn fears that she is in for another of Luna's verbal labyrinths. "Well, that's all very well, then."

The green-eyed witch breathes an exalted (but hushed) sigh of relief. The suggestion appears to have pleased Luna, and that is good enough for Quinn.

"What about..." Quinn fumbles inelegantly over her words, unacquainted with the prospect of asking this of others. She feels weird about not returning Luna's gesture, anyway. "uh, you?"

"Very well... very well, indeed, actually. I do think that I've discovered a rather sensible lead on the path to discovering the Crumple-Horned Snornack."

"That's-"

Images of Brittany Pierce burst through the floodgates of Quinn's mind abruptly. It is surprising but not all-together unexpected. Quinn has to bite her inner bottom lip to keep from snickering with amusement.

"Okay. That sounds... really interesting."

"Quite," Luna agrees, looking pleasant all around. For several meters, they walk in silence. Finally, after a second of vague thought, Luna adds: "Have you met anyone else? Hogwarts has some intriguing witches and wizards."

 _No._  That's the short answer. Surely Luna knows that Quinn has introduced herself to her roommates, that she knows Dumbledore, Trelawney, and the rest. Even so, there is a distant memory that radiates in her mind's eye.

"Some boy, a... Slytherin," the terms are still foreign on Quinn's tongue. "Draco Malfoy," Quinn finds that she keeps a curious eye on Luna as she says this, weighing her reaction to his name against Hermione's. If she is expecting anything substantial, though, she is doubly disappointed, for Luna's expression doesn't change. "Do you know him?"

"Well, his family is well-known in our world," Luna admits simply. "So, yes."

 _Well-known_ : this word rattles through Quinn's awareness intriguingly. An archaic sentiment of self-worth bubbles within her suddenly.

"In what way?" Quinn feigns apathy. "Are they rich?"

"Oh, very, I'd gather," even now, Luna's expression remains unchanging. She stays as cheerful and untroubled as ever before. "Though, I'm afraid that Draco's father is presently incarcerated."

Quinn nearly forgets to continue walking at this particular bit of information. Her eyes, round and lethally inquisitive, turn on Luna again.

"He's in jail?" such a scandal certainly whet Quinn's old gossip-mongering palette.

"In Azkaban," frowns Luna, catching Quinn by surprise. She has never seen such a disdainful look from the normally spacey witch. "He is a convicted supporter of You-Know-Who."

"A... Death Eater, right?" Quinn, though her memories seem unclear, recalls the term 'Death Eater' and the moniker 'You-Know-Who' from Hermione Granger's condensed explanation on the train ride over.

"Yes," Luna sighs. "That's right."

At this point, Quinn notes an air of discomfiture floating between them. Curious beyond belief and yet still cautious of Luna's feelings all the same, she reluctantly changes the course of the subject. Mentally, however, she damns her escalating fondness for the off-kilter sorceress.

"Can I ask you about Harry Potter?" Quinn flounders unusually, inexperienced in asking permission for anything.

"Well, you can," Luna intends, "and I'll answer as well as I'm able."

"Emmeline spoke of him, called him by this weird nickname or something."

"The Boy Who Lived?" the distant, whimsical display has returned to Luna's face.

"Yes, that's it," Quinn rubs at her arms idly before at last dropping them from their crossed position to her sides. "What does it mean? I - well, Emmeline mentioned he survived a curse." she looks on as Luna nods.

"The Killing Curse, yes - it is one of the three Unforgivable Curses."

This snags Quinn's interest. It is fascinating to her that witches and wizards seem to have laws similar to her world. If she has the right indication then they must have quite a lot, along with their wizards' jail.

"Cast by that-" Quinn takes a moment to recall the name. "Lord Voldemort?"

"Cast by You-Know-Who, indeed."

"How did he survive it? If the curse is deadly?"

With that dreamy tint to her far-off grey eyes, Luna stares ahead of them as though in bottomless thought. It takes her a grand collection of silence before she at long last parts her lips to respond.

"That, Quinn, I can't say."

"What?" feeling prickled with annoyance, Quinn's blood stirs. "Why?"

"Because I'm not exactly certain  _how_ ," Luna brushes Quinn's palpable irritation off with an honest smile. In this instant, Quinn discovers that she simply can't hold her stern expression. Her lips sink back into a look void of emotion.

"So, he's well-known, as well, is he? Like Draco Malfoy's family?"

"Yes and no," grins Luna. "The Malfoys are infamous; Harry Potter is famous."

Quinn blinks at her, unaware of the reason for her cryptic wording. She breathes lowly again, deciding not to pursue the matter for the time being. They look to be nearing the Astronomy Tower now, by the appearance of things. Kicking her feet dully at the floor beneath them, Quinn snuffs out another yawn before linking her fists at the small of her back.

"Luna?" The girl in question issues a noise of absolution in reply; thus, Quinn continues. "I learned why I was here," when Luna says nothing, she goes on: "I'm a Seer."

"Yes, I thought so," the dainty blonde looks up at Quinn amiably.

"How did you-"

"Just a guess," Luna shrugs, a particular sparkle in her light eyes. "Your aura, mostly."

The hairs on the back of Quinn's neck and arms tickle and stand to attention. This is another one of those moments where she has to remind herself of the world she's in. Everything is weird, and the people are even more so. Luna, of course, is in a category entirely her own. Quinn hasn't the faintest where she falls and isn't partial to trying to place her.

"Dumbledore said today's meeting would help me understand things more," Quinn maintains, licking her lips nervously.

"You don't have to tell me anything, Quinn. I can see this makes you uncomfortable."

"Well, you talked about Voldemort, didn't you?"

A flicker of amusement passes through Luna's eyes at this remark. Quinn finds her face in a similar state of expressional dress.

"Miss Fabray?"

Both girls turn at their leisure to discover the form of Minerva McGonagall standing, winded, a few meters shy of them. Quinn tilts her head somewhat to the side. During their walk has Quinn perhaps forgotten to be vigilant of the time? It seems unlikely.

"Hello, Professor McGonagall," Luna greets her politely.

"Miss Lovegood, hello," nods the professor benevolently yet hurriedly. "I've come to escort Miss Fabray to her meeting with Professor Dumbledore."

"It's kind of early, don't you think?" Quinn blinks at her oddly to which McGonagall surveys her with weighty thoughtfulness.

"That it may be, but we aren't sure how long this will run, and we'd like for you to return to your classes as soon as you are able, Miss Fabray."

Resisting the urge to yawn yet again, Quinn shrugs her shoulders and casts a look to Luna. A faint sense of longing wades in the tumultuous sea of her stomach. It is as though she wishes that she could stay another moment or, at least, to have Luna accompany her. Her anxiety is returning, in spite of her medication.

"I'll see you again soon, Quinn," promises Luna, not missing a beat. Quinn flushes somewhat, feeling ridiculous, before nodding. "Perhaps we can take another walk again soon, maybe around the grounds next time..."

This thought is offered as Luna begins to stroll away, her hands resting at the small of her back quite as Quinn's had been. For a few seconds, Quinn watches Luna depart; however, her eyes soon take to Professor McGonagall who waits almost impatiently near her.

"Are you ready, Miss Fabray?" asks Minerva McGonagall kindly, though clearly out of breath and, very nearly, patience.

"Yes."

"Come with me, then."

* * *

The walk to Dumbledore's office is quiet, but Quinn can't say she minds. Though she admires the older woman's certain fiery determination for her age, she also unnerves Quinn a little. Then again, all of these people do. They are strangers to her, strangers expecting loyalty and obedience—expecting too much, too soon. All the same, she plays her part for the time being. She stands back as McGonagall utters to password  _'lemon drop'_  to the statue and then follows her noiselessly as they ascend the staircase to the Headmaster's office. Quinn is unsurprised to find Trelawney and Emmeline present (and, of course, Dumbledore), but she is utterly perplexed by the presence of a black-clad, greasy-looking man with a rather hooked nose. Quinn knows him only as the new Defense against the Dark Arts teacher, Professor Snape.

"Ah, Miss Fabray," croons Dumbledore. "Welcome, welcome! Thank you, Minerva." the latter is said aside to his apparently dear friend and colleague.

"I apologize, Albus. It took quite some time to find her. She and Miss Lovegood seemed to have decided to take an early morning walk together," McGonagall explains breathlessly. Dumbledore simply smiles.

"No worries. I am glad to hear it," Albus Dumbledore's eyes are on Quinn now as he steps forward. "Thank you for coming, Quinn."

Quinn lets her shoulders drop in another lazy shrug. Did they expect her to run? She has nowhere else to go.

"Severus, might you ready the vials, please?"

Severus Snape does not nod or answer but goes directly to work on Dumbledore's orders. The Hogwarts Headmaster's gaze rests upon Quinn still.

"I told you that everything would become clear come the end of the week, Miss Fabray -"

"Quinn,  _please_ ," Quinn drawls softly, honestly sick of the niceties. Professor Dumbledore's eyes twinkle at her as he smiles.

"- Quinn, yes. I told you that everything would become clear, and the time for enlightenment has come. Though, I am afraid that I must present you with a sort of, ah...  _disclaimer_ , if you will."

Appeal flickers across Quinn's hazel-green eyes.

"There will be, shall we say, a bit of a - well, not a risk, per se, but - small sacrifice involved for this knowledge," he explains while Quinn's skin goes unpredictably cold. "You will be fine," Dumbledore assures her, spying her abrupt fright. "of this I can assure you with absolute certainty. However, this... how we will be presenting this knowledge and information to you is taxing. We are essentially prying open a door that has been sealed shut for years, you see, Quinn. Your Mind's Eye has been locked away, and by giving this information to you and fiddling a bit with our proverbial keys, so to speak, we will be able to unlock your full potential as a Seer and as a witch. This comes with a price of minor pain, I'm afraid - minor only in that we are putting quite a lot of schooling and know-how into your mind with this locum memoriae spell. More than five years' worth, I believe, complete with a vague understanding of how our world works."

As he explains this, Quinn can't keep her mouth from dropping open. Deliberately and openly, she stares at him as though he is speaking gibberish, as though he has just told her to strip naked and present herself to the Great Hall.

"So..." manages the blonde. "You- you're going to put stuff in my... in my head?"

"I suppose you could say that," shrugs Dumbledore. "Do you see those vials?" he indicates the seven small flasks that Professor Snape is tending to. "Those contain the memories and information we are giving to you."

"Wait," Quinn gapes at him. "memories? As in, these belonged to someone once?"

"I reckon that's what a memory constitutes, does it not?" the Headmaster chuckles and fingers delicately at his long, white beard.

"Who-"

"I think you'll understand momentarily, Quinn," Dumbledore winks at her before casting a quick glance at Severus. He looks swiftly back to his new pupil. "Now, as I was saying, this stands upon your full consent alone. This procedure isn't exactly common, you see, and I wouldn't want you to regret your decision to inherit your rightful knowledge."

Silence fills the air as Quinn pauses to think. Never in her life has she thought she would wind up in such a fantastical and outrageous situation. Is he promising her pain?  _real_ pain, should she consent? Minor, sure, but it seems utterly absurd.

"Is this even legal?" her lips are moving before she can control them. Dumbledore looks to find this humorous.

"Well, it isn't necessarily  _il_ legal."

 _Fantastic_ , Quinn's mind rings with faux delight. Then again, she has to admit that this old man's demeanor amuses her greatly, regardless of her tirade about him to Emmeline just yesterday.

"And I'll understand everything?" she prompts, beginning to feel that familiar stab of mental fatigue again.

"Well, not everything," Professor Dumbledore smiles at her. "But then, who in this room can honestly say that they know everything?"

"I meant," Quinn's temper flairs slightly. "that I'll know what I missed, that I'll understand more about this place?"

"Yes, that's the general idea," he bobs his head. "these memories we've saved for you will match you to your Sixth Year peers; however, I don't expect that you'll be just as well-rounded as your peers, you see, as the lot of them have lived in this environment for quite some time. Nevertheless, you will know what they know and have a moderate if not rather good understanding of the Wizarding world. Everything else, I'm more than certain Sybill, Emmeline, and Miss Granger will assist you with."

Running her tongue over her parched lips, Quinn's eyes fall to her feet.

"And the pain?"

"No more than a mere headache for which we will treat you for immediately prior to your waking," Albus Dumbledore soothes her.

"My waking? I'll be asleep?"

"Sedated with a mild sleeping potion," clarifies the wizard. "It's to relax your mind and body, to keep you at ease and utterly calm."

The new-found witch's skin crawls with nerves. The way he speaks of this, however comforting he intends to be, it sounds a right operation.  _What are they going to do? Drill into my head while I'm sleeping?_ Quinn is dubious, suspecting. Even so, the thought of attaining such knowledge tempts her. She is the outsider, the witless American seemingly held back five years. It isn't like her to bend to such social depravities. She lusts for the civil ascension, to be as esteemed as she had once been. It seems a right cliché at this point, but still the question beseeches her:  _what have I got to lose?_ Nothing, answers an unidentified source. Nothing at all.

"Okay," Quinn knows she's being reckless, and yet she somehow can't bring herself to bother with the idea all that much anymore. Self-care isn't something that she holds high in value at this point, anyway. "What do I need to do?"

Dumbledore looks to be receiving her inquisitively. Behind the glass of his half-moon spectacles, he appears considerate, if not a bit concerned. However, this expression is short-lived as he waves his arm toward a leather chaise lounge. Quinn cranes her neck slightly to see and then sighs. Briefly, she recalls her counseling visits, of the  _'how are you feeling today, Quinn'_ 's; the  _'why does that make you so angry, Quinn'_ 's; and, of course, the most famous— _'and why do you think you feel that way, Quinn'_ 's. She sniffs, bemused, as she pads toward it to sit with her ankles crossed.

"You'll need to lie down," Professor Dumbledore tells her gently. "just as a safety precaution."

Grunting a more or less noncommittal bark at the back of her throat, Quinn smoothes down her skirt and lies back against the lounge. She tries not to think about the fact that five pairs of eyes are currently upon her. Instead, she takes to tracing her eyes in patterns along the ceiling. The man addressed as Severus glides to her side with the collection of vials in hand his eyes unseeing as he sorts them tediously upon a small table. A half-second later and it seems a tiny goblet has been thrust toward her by the black-haired wizard. Quinn stares at it, inhaling the acrid scent suspiciously.

"Your sleeping potion," Snape declares flatly.

A puff of air exits Quinn's lungs as she locks eyes with the man before tipping the cup to her lips. It is warm, the potion; this is the first thing that she notices, as it is warm and silky as it slips tepidly down her throat. Odd as it is, she realizes that she is smiling at this. It's comforting and soothing as it is the last consciousness aspect that she can grasp. Soon she's floating, cozy and weightless. The smile hasn't left her face, and she's happy (or close enough to it than she's been in months).

Her legs swing gaily off what looks to be a cloud as she sits, peering down at a pleasant space of white oblivion. It doesn't alarm her, this lack of being. On the contrary, her face is practically glittering with unearthly divinity, a shade of glee most unlike her corporeal self. Quinn kicks her feet thoughtlessly and smiles as this ruffles her floor-length, colorless gown that has manifested upon her body. There is the familiar scent of cedar in the air as she tips her head back, breathing it in. Only then does she realize that she is not alone. Somehow, she knows her companion.

"It's you," she says evenly, recalling her dream where she had been shrouded in darkness, where the being called themselves a teacher.

 _'YOU,'_  gurgles the dispersed voice.  _'HAVE COME AT LAST.'_

Quinn, feeling more carefree and lighthearted than she has in years, bobs her head of golden curls with liberation.

"Yes," replies Quinn. "I'm here."

_'THIS IS. . .GOOD. THIS IS. . .HOW IT SHOULD BE.'_

A collective sense of understanding settles itself at the pit of Quinn's stomach. She finds that words are unnecessary, that there is a web of mutual comprehension that stretches between the disembodied being and her.

 _'YOU LISTENED WELL,'_  the ancient spirit compliments her indistinctly.  _'AND NOW, I WILL WALK WITH YOU.'_

"But I don't know you," Quinn speaks flippantly, still kicking her feet as though she is a child once more. "How can I trust you?"

 _'I AM A TEACHER_ _—YOUR TEACHER,'_ is what it tells her simply.  _'AND I AM HERE TO GUIDE YOU.'_

In her waking life, Quinn rationalizes that this answer would not suffice for her. However, for some reason or another, she feels at ease, capable of trust that she would not otherwise award consciously. She rises to her feet, bare as the day she had been born, and looks around, searching for the source of the voice.

"Where are you?" she wonders, canting her head intriguingly.

 _'I AM HERE,'_  comes the all-embracing response.  _'I AM ALL AROUND. NOW, COME. STEP DOWN FROM WHERE YOU STAND.'_

Quinn hesitates, her green eyes squinting against the spiritual glare of the nothingness beneath her cloud. Indeed, there is naught. Below her feet, all is blank, an unblemished canvas of never-ending white.

"I'll fall," explains Quinn in a trivial and mortal manner.

_'AS YOU MUST.'_

"But I could die."

 _'YOU FEAR WHAT IS INEVITABLE,'_  resolves her Teacher.

This appears to decide the matter for Quinn, for a flutter of a heartbeat later, her right foot has lifted, and she has taken the plunge. As it is, the 'plunge' is not so much a 'plunge' but a weighted step. Quicker than she can blink, the white turns sour, and she is blanketed in darkness again, as she had been that night before. There is a reek of carrion and charred flesh, of resolution and abolishment. She can't see her Teacher, but Quinn knows that the presence remains with her as she begins to walk, barefoot, over a smoking and presumed battlefield.

"Where are we?"

_'AT THE BEGINNING.'_

Together, they walk, the shimmering train of Quinn's white robes catching vehemently upon litter of the warzone. It rips and tears, but she does not collect it in hopes of salvaging it for later. No, she allows it to shred and break, to become covered in filth and fluid. In the distance, lights are flashing, green and red, but Quinn's eyes are on the transcendent path at her feet. It appears translucent, otherworldly. She steps over the crumbled form of a previously hemorrhaging human body.

"Why did you bring me here?" Quinn asks airily, her face openly disgusted as she sways out of the path of another stinking corpse.

_'YOU CAN START NOWHERE SAVE THE BEGINNING.'_

"I don't want to be here," continues the blonde. "It's dirty, and it smells like death."

 _'DO NOT STRAY,'_  her Teacher speaks sharply now, pitch rising as Quinn starts to move away from the see-through road that they traverse together. Very quickly, the Seer steers herself back to the middle of the course, looking a bit goaded.  _'DO YOU SEE WHAT IS UP AHEAD?'_

Standing on her tip-toes, Quinn aims to look, to cut through the flashes of green and red, red and green. She narrows her eyes, taking a moment to decipher just where it is her Teacher expects her to be looking. Then, she sees it: a marble statue of some sort with people sandwiched between two halves looking terrified. They seem as though they are to be squashed between the massive stones.

"Will they die?" Quinn inquires loosely as they near the piece of work.

 _'IT IS. . .INEVITABLE,'_  is all Quinn's Teacher offers to her.

Walking around the monstrosity of an effigy, Quinn tugs at her skirts, which are now at her ankles. The train of her dress has been torn entirely off now. Her eyes are on the people about to be clapped to death between the two halves of marble rock.

"And what is their crime?" she asks aloud, her fingertips brushing the slick marble with vanishing novelty.

_'THEIR BIRTH.'_

Suddenly, at their right, a great spark of crimson red catches Quinn's attention. Her eyes dart in that direction, her gaze rounding as she spies a figure that, to her, seems distantly familiar. With Quinn's focus diverted from the horrific statue, she sweeps toward the silhouette, ducking her head as she passes through other jets of green and red. Upon closer inspection, she discovers a boy, painted on a backdrop of a beam of lightning.

"That's Harry Potter," Quinn says at once, moving nearer the scene. He appears to be fighting someone but as to whom Quinn is uncertain. She sees only the boy, vague and undefined, a right phantom of a figure. He seems older for some reason, weathered—but as Quinn reaches out to perhaps lay her hands upon him, they appear to scatter his image. Like smoke, it dissipates, leaving nothing at all behind—not even the slightest trace. He becomes a nonentity.

Quinn whips her head about, turning her eyes toward the direction that Harry Potter had been facing. At first, she fears that she sees nothing but more blankness. Yet, in one breath, the lines look to sharpen. Eclipsed upon a background of indescribable gloom, she spies a cavalry of sorts, a horde of obsidian creatures. They emit a chemical green from their eyes, from their mouths, from their hands. They seem to be screaming, but the sound is unclear. At the point of their gathering, stands a cloaked figure with a gait that Quinn can only describe as serpentine. For the first time throughout her unconscious state, there manifests a most terrible pang of terror within Quinn.

"Who is that?" she begs of her Teacher, trembling. There comes no answer, however, and Quinn's anxiety starts to tease the locks of their holding pens. "Teacher, who is that?" this time, it is a demand. She requires an answer at all cost, but she is given nothing.

The absence of her Teacher's presence is sudden albeit profound. At once, Quinn recognizes the all-too familiar sensation of seclusion. Her Teacher has seemingly fled.

"No! No! Come back!" Quinn screeches frantically, her veins pulsing at her temples. An unexpected zap of pain forms there as she grasps roughly at her dress. She hisses, clawing wildly at her linens, all while her eyes remain glued upon the snake-like figure in black. "Come back!" she shrieks to her vanished Teacher. "COME BACK!" but there is no reply, only another resounding hammer of pain to her temples which causes Quinn's knees to buckle.

Her entire body quakes as a strangled cry weasels its way out of her throat. The witch's hands are in rumble and decay, mingling grotesquely with the blood and disconnected limbs of long-deceased, battle-worn bodies. She wants to retch, the smell alone, overwhelming and all consuming, threatens to make her sick; nevertheless, she somehow manages to crawl forward along the battleground. Bile burns in the back of her mouth at the bend of her throat, and she has to force herself to swallow it back down. Ripping and tearing at the ground, she sacrifices the pure fabric of her skirts which echo as they tear themselves against debris.

"I don't want to be here," she cries to no one. "I didn't want to be here!"

More flashes of green and red zip above her head, crackling against one another as others seemingly make contact with their targets evicting a definite and ear-splitting ' _tha-rumpf_.' On her hands and knees, nearly in a complete state of undress, Quinn crawls, openly weeping from the pain in her head now as she tries to flee. There are indistinct screams and cries in the white noise of her head now, and she scarcely notices the route in which she has taken herself until she has made it. Colliding powerfully with some sort of solid, she chokes out a gasp of surprise. Cold and shivering, she collects her battered, sullied hands unto her chest and stops, sitting upon her knees. Looking up, she realizes with horror where she has put herself.

She has dragged herself directly to the feet of the serpent figure. Quinn begs herself not to cry out, not to expel a noise of out-and-out alarm as their eyes meet: green and red. Instantaneously, she understands everything, but it is not in time to remove herself from the line of fire on the snake-man's behalf. Greeted with one final burst of agony that threatens to split apart her skull at its seams, Quinn feels herself being yanked violently askew. She seems to have evaporated from her earthly self but not before shelving away her gathered enlightenment of what she had seen.

It had been war—and, in Quinn's heart of hearts, she knows it to be inevitable.


	8. The Audacity of Thought

It can be described only as a wretched falling sensation, a high-speed vacuum of rapid descent. As though each pulse of her hard-thumping heart brings an onslaught of vapid darkness, Quinn finds that with every second of plummeting, her temples are assaulted with an unforgiving throb. She sees things previously unknown to her. She finds that right strangers are now dear acquaintances, comrades even. Understanding bounds itself around her neck and tightens, yet she can do nothing. She sputters and cries out, but still she falls, capsized in a chasm of ultimate blackness.

 _I didn't... want to be here_ , she finds herself thinking uselessly,  _I didn't ask for this._

A beat of jet-black and there is a man in robes of the deepest velvet obsidian with his face half-obscured by the hood of his cloak. There is a glimpse of light skin, of white-blonde hair, and then he's gone. Another cadence of black brings the form of a woman, frowning in her dark yet elegant green frock. She stands with another, a lady in black with eyes just as disapproving as the first nameless figure. They're gone. The flashes of black and pictures that follow begin to fall upon her more quickly now as she continues her careless plunge. She sees black figures with avarice in their eyes, green as hard-boiled sin. There is a hiss at the back of her head, just behind her right ear, and her consciousness shudders. An incantation, a sound of collapse, and she spies a sea of motionless wind-swept silhouettes. Are these the limp figures of the dead? A scream hitches at the base of her throat. She needs to raise the alarm but finds, quite horrifically, that she cannot. Something holds her tongue, stitches her lips shut.

 _"Is she dead?"_ someone, somewhere is saying.

 _"No, of course not!"_  snaps someone else, the defiant tone of a fierce-sounding woman.

 _"What went wrong?"_ asks another.

 _"It is,"_ begins a different voice still, a diplomatic inflection about the obviously male speaker _. "difficult to say."_

 _"When will she be waking?"_  this particular voice is taut and frank. A snort of contempt rumbles from what sounds to Quinn like the second speaker.

 _"Honestly!"_  exclaims the woman.  _"You'd think her the subject of a glass display. Back up! Back up, I say! Back up, all of you! She'll wake when she does, and that's that."_

In her flippant state of unconsciousness, Quinn hears the disgruntled noises of those pushed back. Someone sounds to have tripped. Still paralyzed with what Quinn can only assume to be sleep, the blonde attempts to wriggle something- her toes, her fingertips, anything. No one seems to take any heed if this works, that is to say if she had moved at all to begin with. Thus, Quinn groans. It is this and this alone that appears to have been noticed. Distant, tin choruses of  _'oh!'_ ;  _'Quinn!'_ ; and  _'Miss Fabray!'_ sound at once. Rubbing dully at her heavy eyelids, Quinn wills her eyes to open at long last. Everything is a blinding blur of white. She feels as though she hasn't been awake in years, and for a moment, the thought of this possibly being true actually alarms her. This is, of course, until her vision begins to settle, and she sees undefined blobs of shapes. With much difficulty, Quinn comes to understand the most definite figure is that of bushy brown hair, dark eyes, fair skin-

"Jesus!" screeches Quinn, realizing that the girl at her apparent bed's end is none other than Hermione Granger. Immediately, she presses her back harder against her mattress, abruptly very self-conscious. This is when she realizes that there are others crowded near her in this steadily darkening room. It looks to Quinn like a damned party, presumably  _her_  damned party.

"Out of the way," comes the irritated grumble of the fierce woman from before as she passes through the small collection of people. "Madame Pomfrey, dear," she says hastily to Quinn as she attempts to press the back of her palm to Quinn's flushed face. Quinn rudely denies her this gesture by cowering back out of reach. "How are you feeling?"

Dazed and confused, Quinn merely lies there for a moment, her vision still settling. She looks left and right, trying to make sense of those present. It takes her several seconds but soon their faces register within her frazzled mind. Hermione Granger stands even now at the foot of her bed looking impatient with her arms crossed; Professors Dumbledore, Trelawney, and McGonagall are a little way back, grouped together; and Emmeline Vance is sitting directly at her right perched stiffly upon a chair. However, most confusing of all is the presence at her left side. Juniper Summers, one of her First Year roommates, stands with her eyes round as saucers and her white-knuckled fists balled around Quinn's sheets as though holding on for dear life itself.

"Uh," the blonde fumbles awkwardly. "fine."

"Fine?" Madame Pomfrey repeats doubtfully, gazing back at Dumbledore.

Quinn only mumbles absentmindedly.

"Well," it doesn't appear as though Quinn's answer has Poppy Pomfrey all-together convinced. Nevertheless, Quinn feels a pang of gratitude for the woman as she quite plainly backs off the subject. "if you say so, I suppose." There is a moment's pause before Quinn thinks to ask:

"When did I wind up in here?"

"Oh, dear," exhales Madame Pomfrey. Before the healer can answer, however, Dumbledore sweeps forward.

"Earlier this morning," he explains matter-of-factly. "just after we finished the memory transferring charm."

"The mem-" but Quinn pauses, realizing only distantly that there are murmurs of disbelief and confusion among one or two of the others. "So, did it...?" she trails off, almost frightened of the impending response. Dumbledore bobs his head soundly.

"It was successful, yes," Dumbledore persists thoughtfully, his fingers stroking idly at his long beard. "as far as we know. I've yet to test whether or not the memories stuck, of course."

Quinn narrows her eyes suspiciously before blinking them heavily. Her thoughts are a maelstrom within her. In fact, her brain feels more active than it's ever been in her life. Presumably catching her unvoiced confusion by her steadily emptying expression, Dumbledore smiles pleasantly at Quinn.

"It will take a bit of getting used to, Quinn, but I can assure you as these memories are rightfully yours by Wizarding law. They were meant for you and you alone," the Headmaster shifts back toward McGonagall and Trelawney.

"So, that's it then?" Quinn asks in disbelief as though it just cannot be that simple. "I have the knowledge now, so I don't need anything else."

Dumbledore, Trelawney, and Pomfrey look to chortle as Hermione remains at the foot of Quinn's hospital bed appearing disapproving as always. Their mirth causes Quinn to scowl. What has she said to yet again be the butt of their seemingly endless in-jokes? She suppresses the urge to growl.

"There is training to be done," Emmeline speaks first this time. "You have the knowledge, yes, but how to use it  _properly_ is another hurdle entirely."

Impatience tugs relentlessly at the corners of Quinn's mouth. Ignoring the sharp stab of pain in either of her temples, she sits upright and glowers defiantly at first Emmeline and then the rest of them.

"Then I want to get it over with," she plays her words to sound bored, as though it means nothing to her; even when, in actuality, it means a great deal. Quinn wishes to shed her skin of novelty to this world and to at last understand where she has come to be. "I want to start immediately."

"I must say that your alacrity is admirable," attests Albus Dumbledore with a glimmer of a smile. "even so, it's nearly nightfall and - ah, yes, I would suggest climbing back into bed there, my dear -" his eyes twinkle as Quinn grudgingly slips back beneath her covers, clearly eager to leave the hospital wing as soon as possible. "if you're well and on Sybill and Emmeline's permissions, I can imagine you may begin your work soon, quite possibly tomorrow."

With a fleeting glance toward the windows, she realizes that any sort of argument against this ruling would be ineffectual. In any case, the sun is nearly gone now, the day more or less through. Quinn mumbles a begrudging noise of agreement.

"Wonderful," Dumbledore shoves his hands into the pockets of his robes and gazes around him. Quinn feels an unexpected thrash of anxiety stumble over her in a single wave. "Ladies," chimes the Headmaster. "if you will excuse me, I've previous arrangements to attend. Until we meet again, Quinn. Rest well."

Several pairs of eyes watch as the retreating form of Professor Dumbledore slowly steps from the room. It isn't long at all before Professor McGonagall, too, murmurs her distracted, obligatory 'goodbye' as well before trailing after him. Much to Quinn's disdain, this leaves her with the least likely sort of Hermione, Emmeline, June, and Trelawney. All are looking at her, but no one, in spite of Quinn's rather plain annoyance, speaks.

"Well?" prompts Quinn. "I want out of this appalling night dress as quickly as humanly possible."

It is Emmeline that considers her for a moment.

"I don't see why not..." she hesitates, appraising Quinn with her eyes.

"Honestly, I'm fine," Quinn grumbles. "Completely fine. My head doesn't even hurt." This is, of course, a small white lie, for there is a definite twinge of pain in either of Quinn's temples. However, whether Emmeline knows Quinn is lying or not remains uncertain, for the woman merely stands and shrugs.

"It's your health," is all she says to Quinn, who gives her a furtive grin. Quinn discovers that this is one of the few times where she sees herself genuinely liking the older witch. "Miss Granger," Emmeline's eyes are on a shell-shocked Hermione at once with Quinn looking on just as disbelieving. "have you any spare time tomorrow during your break to lend a hand? I hear from Albus that you're the best in your year at spell and charm-casting."

Hermione's face goes visibly albeit briefly pink before she draws in a sharp intake of breath. She looks as though she is swiftly considering her options, and Quinn openly scowls.

"Well," if the tone of Hermione's abruptly shrill voice is any clue, Quinn feels that a sanctimonious explanation is inevitable. "normally I would, no doubt, have an Arithmancy essay to finish. However, lucky for Quinn here, I suppose, I completed it just this afternoon," she pauses to accentuate her point with a prickly look at Quinn whose lower lip curls most defiantly. "Though I should be studying for my upcoming NEWTs, I reckon that I must uphold my duty to Dumbledore as her student mentor."

"Will you be able to be present or not, Miss Granger?" Emmeline asks politely, though with an edge of what sounds like haste in her inflection.

"Yes," says Hermione directly.

"How does after lunch suit the pair of you?" presses Emmeline, gazing between Hermione and Quinn with an unreadable expression. To Quinn's surprise, both of them answer at once with relatively similar utterances of 'fine.' Hermione and Quinn stare at one another challengingly as though the serendipity of it all had offended the both of them unspeakably.

"Very well then," Quinn's mentor is nearing the end of the bed as she speaks to them now. "I've business of my own to see to, but I will see both of you at the Training Grounds."

Quinn is scarcely offended that Emmeline offers little more than a nod before departing, leaving Trelawney, Hermione, and June. Though, admittedly, a burden of discomfiture has begun to settle heavily upon Quinn's chest at the sight of the misty-eyed Seer an arm's-length away.

"Quinn," Sybill Trelawney chimes dreamily, quite literally shoving an irritated Hermione Granger aside as she glides toward her pupil. "Quinn, Quinn,  _Quinn_  - do you see it? do you  _feel_  it? Your Inner Eye! Oh, dearest Quinn, does it  _speak_ to you?"

The blonde hisses, her previous self-consciousness crashing down upon her once more, this time more ferociously. Quinn forbids herself to turn scarlet as Trelawney looms ever near, an action that causes Hermione to look, for some reason, slightly smug.

" _Y_ -!" but Quinn hesitates, suddenly realizing that she doesn't know the answer to this question at all. How  _does_  she feel? She has a bit of a headache, but it isn't unbearable. Everything else just feels, well, normal. She looks around as though expecting some sort of palpable enlightenment, but nothing presents itself to her. In truth, she feels very much the same if not less weighted down by ignorance of this world.

"No," says Quinn. "I feel very much the same."

Behind Trelawney, Hermione can't seem to control a bark of quiet yet quite obviously derisive laughter. As though perfectly on cue, Quinn rounds on Hermione with a look to kill, a glower intended to silently maim the bushy-haired witch solely with her feverish eyes. The snigger subsides at once, though it has barely lasted a second as it is.

"Pity, pity!" gripes Trelawney, sighing as she reaches for one of Quinn's hands. Quinn is quick to thwart the other Seer, however, as she shuffles back against her pillows out of comfortable reach. The Divinations professor frowns distantly. "oh, well, your mind will need some sort of resting period, I presume! So much to see! So much in store! So much unlocked, you see! Yes, yes, indeed - that's it! The stars will settle over you, though, child, worry you not," she is reaching for Quinn again as though to comfort her, but again the American witch resists her advances fervently. "I'll be in to see you soon. Sooner than you think, I'd gather, but you'll know. You'll sense me coming, you will!"

 _This woman,_ thinks Quinn incredulously _, is absolutely batshit insane_. This revelation seems to come only too late, of course, as Quinn recalls where she herself presently resides (a castle full of the insane). Barely batting a lash as Sybill Trelawney excuses herself to tunes of 'the stars are swimming' and 'the future is bleak,' a sour aftertaste lingers in the room. Quinn doesn't know whether to laugh, cry, or both. So, she rewards herself with a sneer.

"I suppose I'll leave you be, as well," Hermione is saying a second later, her eyes having tailed the departure of the eccentric Trelawney. With some difficulty, Quinn swallows back a contemptuous reply. "Do try to stay put, will you?"

Volcanic heat erupts throughout Quinn's entire body in that instant. Her tongue so tightly twisted by this new-found, white-hot fury, Quinn is left to observe the graceful turn in which Hermione exerts upon her heels to exit in contrived silence. Blood is pounding so loudly in the Seer's ears as she watches Hermione leave that she remains unwillingly mute. She can't hear herself to think and even lesser still to stop metaphorically frothing at the mouth for a moment in hopes of conjuring up an unforgivably offensive retort. Quinn is left to seethe wordlessly, very nearly purple in the face with rage.

"M-m-miss?"

The timid, mouse-like squeak takes Quinn by complete surprise. As though ice-cold water has been doused over the raucous flame of her anger, she feels unexpectedly sodden. Her eyes, once dilated with sentiment, now contract and look to find the round-eyed June Summers at her bedside still.  _It speaks_ , is Quinn's first and only coherent thought.

"It's late," the words leap from Quinn's lips before she has a chance to tug them back. "You should probably be in bed or something."

June looks momentarily disheartened as she stands and shuffles side-to-side on her feet.  _She's just so damned tiny_ , muses Quinn, as though noticing for the first time just how small and frail the little redheaded First Year is.

"I know I ought," mumbles June, not meeting Quinn's eyes. "but... but I wanted to know you were okay."

For a moment or so, Quinn stares at her, thunderstruck.

"I'm perfectly fine," Quinn snaps without thinking. However, seeing the eleven-year-old's wounded expression, she quickly recants. "I mean- sorry, long day. Thanks." Her words are choppy but nevertheless genuine. June merely nods, sinking further into herself. Reluctantly, the maternal instinct within Quinn begins to flare up, to roar with dissatisfaction at Quinn's blatant mistreatment of this girl whom appears to have only wanted to wish her well. Piercing mantras that distinctly sound of  _'don't be a bitch'_ reverberate off the canyons of Quinn's mind.

"You're sweet," says Quinn quickly and unthinkingly. "I mean-"  _damn it._  "It was sweet of you... to visit."

At this, June seems to perk up slightly. Quinn persists.

"To be honest, it's a little -"  _don't stay 'weird,' Quinn; don't - say - 'weird.' God help me if she starts looking about to cry again._  "- unexpected. I don't- I don't think we've ever spoken before."

June's fingers fumble bashfully over her school robes. Against Quinn's wishes, the motherly glow at the base of her own stomach continues to burn ceaselessly. As she looks into the eyes of the timid rabbit of a girl, she feels sympathy for her, sadness even. Without meaning to, Quinn frowns.

"But you're here. You didn't have to be, but you are," murmurs Quinn. "That's more than I deserve from you or anyone."

"You shouldn't- you shouldn't," June wets her lips nervously. "say things like that, things that aren't true. Because that's not true at all."

Quinn receives the First Year witch with relative surprise. Narrowing her eyes, she finds herself at a brief loss for words. Lucky for Quinn, however, June speaks once more.

"I wanted to talk to you, but I didn't... I didn't want to bother you, Miss Quinn," comes June's low explanation.

"Quinn," the blonde corrects her quickly. "Just Quinn. Junip- uh, June. Right?"

The younger girl nods and shifts her weight from foot to foot. Still, June has not yet met Quinn's eyes.

"We're roommates," dismisses Quinn. "I assumed I'd be talking to you kids sooner or later."

"I suppose," June admits, sounding unconvinced. "I just always thought you didn't like being with...  _kids_  younger than you. That we'd annoy you."

Having her own word ('kids') parroted back at her, Quinn winces somewhat. She immediately regrets the usage, but she decides not to worry too much about it now. It's done, anyway. Instead, she wills herself to crack the tiniest of smiles, the maternal fire in her belly raging on strong.

"I could've had worse," she grins, her eyes scanning June's demure appearance. "Much worse."

In all honesty, Quinn expects to have offended the girl again. Even so, and much to Quinn's disbelief, June presents a rather large smile at this apparent truth. Perhaps it is a trick of sound, but Quinn thinks that she hears, too, the softest of chuckles from her.  _Well_ , thinks Quinn,  _at least I've said something right._

"You're really very kind," deduces June, smiling all the while. It is truly an amazing transformation, June's shift from a timid cocooned caterpillar to a modest social butterfly.

"Oh," Quinn smirks, setting her eyebrows aloft satirically. "well, thank heavens  _someone_  thinks so."

Perhaps in spite of herself, June erupts into giggles. Several seconds tick by with June merely smiling and laughing to herself, and Quinn finds it peculiar that this doesn't make her, Quinn, uncomfortable. As a matter of fact, Quinn can feel the subtle twitch of a smile upon her own lips as she observes the other girl in cozy silence.

"You had another visitor, too, you know," June tells Quinn in her soft, breezy voice after settling down. Quinn knits her eyebrows in confusion. "Yes, ah... a boy."

The urge to guffaw is upon Quinn once more. However, somehow (perhaps by the grace of some benevolent god) she keeps herself quiet.

"A boy?" echoes Quinn with a sneer not directed at her roommate. "You mean a teacher? A  _man_?"

June frowns and shakes her head at this.

"No, a  _boy_ , as in a student."

Quinn resigns to the fact that she must take June's word for it given that she herself had been unconscious at the time.

"Who?" ponders the blonde airily. June looks down at her hands and fiddles anxiously with her fingers.

"I believe it was the Malfoy boy," her voice has now dropped to a terrified whisper. "Mister Draco."

"Don't call him that," barks Quinn without second thought. "I- sorry. He's just a jacka- I mean-  _fff_ -"  _Jesus, word control, Q. You're around a child for God's sake!_ "He's an undeserving idiot from what I've seen and heard of him."

Honestly, Quinn knows this isn't much better. She concludes that she can't worry about it now. A red-faced June is looking at her, wide-eyed and presumably mortified.

"You mean, you know him? Mist- I... Draco, that is?"

"No," Quinn says flatly. "Not really. We've met once, and I've seen the guy around. I wasn't impressed." This is an understatement, of course. Quinn remembers him only as a self-righteous, brown-nosing prick. It's only June's innocence that keeps these particular words from flying out of the teenager's mouth.

"Oh," mumbles June. "I see. Well, anyway, he stopped by... a few times, actually. He never really walked in with the rest of us, though."

"You mean to say you've been here all day?" deadpans Quinn, her eyebrows lowering further against her forehead.

"No! I mean, I-I ha-had classes. I just stopped by on breaks and stayed here after my last class," the rosy tint to June's pale cheeks is returning in full force.

"Stop it, you," Quinn's tone is gentle. "I wasn't angry with you, just... well, confused. Okay, so you saw him each time you stopped by, then?" June bobs her head slowly to which Quinn scoffs. "Creep." To this, not even June can apprehend the smile that spreads across her lips.

"Well, thanks for telling me, I guess," decides Quinn with a grateful look to June whom blushes. "I suppose I'll have to have a word with ' _Mr.'_ Malfoy about the consequences of federal stalking."

Beside her, June beams humorously, and for a split second, the pair of them actually share a small laugh. Though, half a moment later, Quinn, who finds herself momentarily bewildered by this inexplicable bonding, has to avert her eyes (as casually as she can manage) to mask the sudden round of discomfort that blankets her.

"You'd better be off,  _Miss_  June. I hear there's a dirty old man with a mangy cat that gets awfully testy if the kids aren't tucked into their beds before eight," Quinn chides the small witch lightheartedly. The freckle-faced child grins vaguely before stepping back a little.

"You're right," laughs June. "Mr. Filch can be something else," as though suspended in thought, the redhead hesitates. Then, leaning on her heels, she waves her right hand at Quinn. "Feel better, Quinn. I'll see you back in the Ravenclaw dormitories soon?"

Nodding reassuringly, Quinn looks on mutely as the tiny figure of June disappears, leaving Quinn both quite alone and quite confounded in her hospital bed.

* * *

For the next week, Quinn meets with Hermione and Emmeline at least once a day to practice with her newly acquired bank of knowledge. If anyone is more surprised than Quinn at how much information has been added to the steadily broadening arsenal of Quinn's mind, however, then it is Hermione Granger. It had seemed for the first few days that Hermione would only permit Quinn to stand still and recite only simple charms and spells. Quinn had been forced to levitate pebbles, to send small objects such as sticks flying backward. Much to Quinn's obvious surprise, she had found herself becoming quite bored rather quickly. Despite the fact that magic is novel to her, the notion that she can do far greater things than expel water from the tip of her wand allures her. Her mind is alive and murmuring with hexes and spells of old, of magic that she herself has never even heard of before. She aches to try it, to test them all, but she finds herself held back by the stern arm of Hermione.

"No, no, no!" snaps Hermione, a full six days into their training together. Quinn stands before her, hands on her hips, a pile of something smoldering at her feet. She has been squawking at Quinn for the better part of an hour.  _'You're not doing it correctly!'; 'pay attention!'; 'that's not the proper way to wield a wand!'_ Needless to say, Quinn's patience is waning.

"What is it now?" Quinn growls.

"This is the disarming charm we're practicing," laments the bushy-haired witch as she stamps toward Quinn.

"Yes, funnily enough, I gathered that much," hisses Quinn scathingly. "You've reminded me about five times now."

"Then stop setting patches of grass around you on fire, will you?"

Silently seething, Quinn rakes the bottom of her shoe over the small collection of grass near her that had still been smoking slightly. She knows that by the heat tickling at the base of her ears that she must look livid or, god forbid, embarrassed.

"I'm not doing it on purpose."

"No, of course you're not," Hermione claps her left hand to her own left temple and rubs it somewhat. "You haven't the faintest what we're even doing. You can't seem to pay attention for more than five seconds!"

More heat explodes throughout Quinn's body, this time to her ears and cheeks. Balling her fists at her sides, for half a second she thinks to leap at Hermione, to go for her throat. How dare she, anyway? going off at the mouth as though she has any right. Quinn straightens her back unconsciously, the old fire of her superiority complex threatening to rekindle.

"Girls, girls -  _honestly_!" hollers Emmeline from the sidelines where she observes them. "We'll get nothing accomplished at all if you can't control both of your tempers for longer than five seconds," at the last words, she casts a reproachful glance to Hermione whom sniffs as though slapped across the face. "Sybill and, I'm sure, Dumbledore expect Quinn to become comfortable with her basics before we delve into more complex spellwork. She has the knowledge and the technique. She merely needs refining and guidance. Hermione," Emmeline's eyes harden as they brush over the brown-eyed witch. "that is  _your_ job."

Hermione looks about to fight back, to curse at Emmeline for even thinking to question her loyalty to her given task. However, within heartbeats it's clear that she, to Quinn, hasn't the gall. Hermione's shoulders slump a fraction of a centimeter before she shrugs in apparent defeat.

"My apologies, Miss Vance," she says respectfully (though with an edge of concealed rage, Quinn's intuition tells her).

"It's all very well," concedes Emmeline, batting her right hand at the air dismissively. "Now, on with it."

"Right," Hermione's eyes are on Quinn once more, searing and challenging. "Pay attention."

Biting back a snarl of  _'I'm looking right at you, stupid,'_  Quinn keeps her back delicately straight and poised. Resting snugly in the palm of Quinn's right hand is her complacent, willow wand of eleven inches that she had been given back in Diagon Alley. It still feels awkward for Quinn to be swinging this, in her mind, bit of stick around. Nevertheless, it brings with it, too, an unexplainable sensation of belonging and familiarity, as though it is somehow meant to be.

"Stand before me," instructs Hermione as Quinn shifts to face her two meters away. "Ready your wand-"

"I thought we were supposed to bow to one another," Quinn inquires cheekily, the hint of a smirk on her face. Hermione flushes scarlet.

"We're merely practicing!" huffs the Gryffindor witch, trying mutinously to maintain her cool. "Now, as I was saying: wands at the ready. On the count of three," it's rather strange, but Hermione looks nervous. "one -" Does she really think that Quinn will set her on fire, too? "two -" this particular thought broadens Quinn's nasty grin.  _She wishes I would, I bet; it'd get me out of her hair._  "three!"

At the same time that Hermione firmly speaks the word  _expelliarmus_ , the spell  _stupefy_ promptly leaves Quinn's mouth. Jets of light shoot from both of the witches' wands, but Hermione is quicker. Seeing Quinn's error, Hermione hisses the word,  _'Protego!'_  just in time to evade the inevitable effects of Quinn's miscast Stunning Spell. Quinn, however, is not quite as swift on her feet and thus finds her wand thrust wildly out of her hand. She grumbles, suddenly wishing that perhaps she should have instead opted to set Hermione on fire.

"Are you mental?" breathes Hermione, bushy hair bouncing madly at her shoulders. "For the last time, I said the spell is  _expelliarmus_  not  _stupefy_!"

Quinn cants her left hip outward and grasps lazily at her right mid-arm with her left hand. Her face is that of the utmost displeasure and annoyance.

"Yeah, I heard you, all right," spits Quinn.

"Quinn, are you even listening to Miss Granger?" sighs Emmeline.

"Of course I am!" Quinn retorts, nostrils flaring somewhat. "She just annoyed me."

"Annoyed you!" shout both Hermione and Emmeline at once.

"Quinn, that is no reason to undermine Miss Granger's authority," denotes Emmeline firmly.

" _Excuse_  me!" Quinn's temper is crackling dangerously. "Authority over  _me_? I'd like t-"

"The misuse of magic during a lesson is strictly frowned upon, Miss Fabray!" Emmeline speaks over Quinn with a new-found air of superiority, as though she is talking to a misbehaving child. "You will not again purposefully fumble over a spell. Who knows what kind of damage you could've caused at your novice level? Miss Granger could have been badly injured!"

"I wasn't trying to hurt her," snarls Quinn. "I'm not an idiot."

"Oh!" exclaims Hermione sardonically. "You could have fooled me."

"YOU SHUT TH-"

" _Quinn_! Miss Granger! If you can't settle down then I'll have to report you both!" blazes Emmeline. "It is under Professor Dumbledore's orders that you learn to understand your powers, Quinn. Do you truly fail to see the significance of this? If you continue to abuse your talents in any way then we may as well take back that knowledge that you were given, wipe your memories, and send you straight home. Now,  _honestly_ ," the woman wheezes heavily in aggravation. "Act the young adults that you  _are_!"

Though it is clear that Hermione and Quinn feel completely different emotions in response to this scolding (Hermione, shame; and Quinn, belligerence), the rest of their lesson goes off without a hitch. Quinn subjects herself to behave while Hermione seems to strive for a more level tone when speaking to Quinn. All in all, it goes as well as it can with Quinn nearly managing to disarm Hermione once. Yet a nagging sensation in the back of Quinn's mind tells her that this is only because in that exact moment their equally fierce gazes had met for half a millisecond, most likely causing some kind of anger-induced distraction on Hermione's behalf. In any case, if Hermione had been trying to go easy on Quinn, she certainly does a poor job of it.

By the time that they are finished, Quinn has nearly mastered the particular wrist flick of the Disarming Charm. She chalks it up mostly to the whispers in her head, the previous knowledge of the owner of the memories and information that now inhabit her brain. Though, to be fair, her pride does allow her a small bit of credit, as well. Still, Hermione and Quinn exit the Training Grounds without so much as a spoken word of goodbye. They had simply locked eyes with contempt at Emmeline's orders of,  _"Same time tomorrow, ladies."_

At any rate, the amount of time that Quinn can spend safely in Hermione Granger's company has expired. Quinn can only take so much of the loud-mouthed know-it-all at a time. With her head nearly pounding as she rounds the staircases toward the west side of the grounds, Quinn thinks again how so unfortunately similar the brainy witch is to Rachel Berry. Both are proud, loud, and obnoxious, yet admittedly smart, ambitious, and determined. For a moment, Quinn frets that she'll never escape the theatrical haunting of Rachel's ghost; however, (and with a laugh, too) she quickly straightens herself up. She knows that these thoughts are old news, not even worth her time anymore. She continues the trek toward Ravenclaw Tower battling away thoughts of magic, Rachel, Disarming Charms, Hermione, and spontaneous combustion.

Upon reaching the door that would gain her entrance into the Ravenclaw commonroon, however, she stands and waits as she is asked the riddle, "No sooner spoken than broken. What am I?"

"Silence," drones Quinn just as the door swings open for her. Stepping inside, she ignores the various students lounging, chatting, or reading and heads directly for the girls' dormitories. She can't care to look to see if she's noticed. More often than not, the younger students stare at her anyway, perplexed by the idea of both an old First Year and an American (apparent) transfer. Today, though, Quinn is only concerned with getting to her bed, of downing her medicine and subsequently relaxing. She can't be bothered with anything else. She gathers that a so-called hippogriff could jump before her, and she wouldn't care right now. Her mind is entirely stocked full with the idea of relaxation and solitude.

By some great miracle, the room is quiet when Quinn arrives. Though Temperance is lurking in her corner and Emalia is scrounging around in her trunk, there is no substantial chatter (unless one can count the incoherent murmurings of the lumbering Temperance). June is strangely absent, but Quinn does not question it. She moves silently to her own bedside and sets her things sloppily upon the foot of her bed. Clawing dully at her crown of braids, she allows her backside to collapse against the bed just as she begins to undo her hair. No one in the room speaks, and again, this is a blessing. Casting aside bobby pins and ponytails to her nightstand, Quinn wordlessly strokes her fingers through her somewhat heat-damaged hair. Years of flat-ironing had been unkind to her, no doubt. All the same, she quickly permits her eyes to rove over the first drawer of her bedside table, and almost in the same breath, she reaches for it.

Quinn opens the drawer and plucks out three orange bottles. Her fingers and eyes scarcely brush over the worn labels before she lets her right index finger dive in and curl around one to two pills three times in a row: one-and-a-half propranolol, one sertraline, and one trazodone. She pops them all into her mouth, reaches for the nearly empty glass of water resting on the tabletop, and then swallows them without another thought.

"Oh, Quinn!" the sudden announcement of her name almost causes the blonde to choke. She doesn't need to look to know that it's Emalia, bearing down on her abrasively. "I didn't see you come in."

"She's been in here for several minutes now," bellows Temperance in her animalistic sort of way. Emalia ignores her to pad over to Quinn's corner of the room.

"Out with Hermione Granger of Gryffindor again?" asks Emalia innocuously. Quinn gives her only a grunt of affirmation. Without invitation, Emalia props herself boldly upon Quinn's bed, legs swinging. "She seems an interesting girl. Heard she's really smart, too. Wonder why she's not in Ravenclaw."

This casual talk goes in one of Quinn's ears and out the ear as she quietly sets her medication back into her drawer and closes it.

"What's she teaching you exactly?"

"Nothing really."

Emalia frowns, but Quinn's moving to her trunk now in search of more comfortable clothes to relax in.

"Is it a secret?"

"Dunno," mutters Quinn distractedly, her hands brushing over various articles of clothing in search for one of her night dresses.

"What do you mean you don't know?" blinks Emalia. "They didn't tell you?"

"No."

Talking to Emalia is a lot like talking to Quinn's mother, Judy, the blonde relates with a bitter smirk. Quinn reckons that she doesn't really need to listen, that vague answers of 'yes,' 'no,' and 'maybe' will work just fine. As it stands, they haven't failed her yet.

"That's weird," concludes the younger witch.

"Uh-huh."

In that moment, Quinn's right hand snags one of her nightgowns, a somewhat worn yet still admirable one of a pink flower pattern. She takes it into her grasp and rises to her full height once more just as June strides into the room looking glum. Even though Quinn is on her way to change, she has half the mind to ask the little girl what's wrong. Though, the other half tells her to run far, far away, to not get too attached. They're just bothersome kids, after all.

"Hey, June," is all that Quinn opts for as she sweeps toward the bathroom. All she is given in return is a sullen 'hi' before Quinn closes the door behind her. It's only when Quinn is alone in the lavatory that a thought suddenly collapses upon her, something abruptly sparked by the reappearance of June. Out of almost nowhere, the meager ghost of the ginger-haired girl's voice is swimming inside Quinn's head, frantic:

_"You had another visitor, too, you know... Yes, a boy... I believe it was the Malfoy boy."_

Realization of Quinn's absentmindedness dawns on Quinn before she even has a chance to scold herself. How had she forgotten about that pompous creep and all of his lurking about? She hisses, drawing her shirt over her head irritably. She would have to have a word with him. Oh, she would sort him out. Though, it's quite funny, really. Part of Quinn's inner monster purrs over the idea that anyone would be so seemingly keen to follow her so. On the other hand, this very same monster of Quinn's fumes at his audacity to even  _dare_. But Quinn will sort him out, of course. No problem. Smoothing her nightgown over her curvy figure, she gives a kind of nod to her reflection. In Quinn's mind, it's already settled. Tomorrow would be a Saturday. Quinn would go to the library to escape for a while, and then she would seek out the boy and threaten him with social castration if he didn't stop tailing her. There is always  _literal_  castration if he proves to be particularly tenacious.

With a saucy smirk, she thinks back to her lessons with Hermione and Emmeline. Humor dances in her eyes at the curious thought that tickles the back of her mind. Who knows? Perhaps there is even a spell for the castration of a stupid, insolent creep of a boy. This idea alone comforts and amuses Quinn as she slips back into her shared room, an elusive smile on her face at the prospect of the following day.


	9. The Critic's Chokehold

If Quinn had thought that the 'procedure' (or whatever it had been) would change the occurrence of her night terrors, then she is sorely mistaken. The following day she is nursing what feels like the world's most pitiless hangover on her way to breakfast. Her temples had roused her that morning pounding as though someone had properly clobbered ten-inch nails into either of them. It really is no great surprise that this appears to only work toward amplifying Quinn's characteristically bad morning persona. She is a bomb just waiting for the chance to ignite, and she intends to take the lot of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with her if she must.

Striding down the corridors toward the Great Hall, she makes a grand effort to scowl savagely at particularly rowdy passers-by as she clamps her fingers lightly to her ears. In her mind, she strategically conjures up all of the most brutal and painful ways that she can punish them for their nerve. How dare they? It is only a minute or two past nine! It is far too early to be talking as though their friends are not standing directly adjacent to them but all the way across the castle. Quinn glowers as she brushes past them.  _Gryffindors_ , she notices with a disapproving frown. Of course they would be. She has come to recognize Gryffindor House as the resident assholes of the school, the boys and girls with the most undeniable desires to rub their accomplishments in other students' faces. Again, Rachel Berry comes to mind, but Quinn does quick work to scatter her thoughts and screw up her face just before entering the dining hall. In any event, she feels that she must at least try to manage a presentable façade to the rest of the student body. The ghost of her pride will consent to no less.

Her gait changes little as various pairs of eyes flutter in her direction, some unseeing and others curious (and perhaps a bit judgmental). Quinn makes it her life's purpose to reach the Ravenclaw table before she loses even an ounce of her bravado. She succeeds thus far, only to slide unceremoniously upon the bench and where she takes straight away to the task of painstakingly shoveling fistfuls of bacon onto her plate. Really, it is only too late before she realizes that the seat to her left had apparently already been occupied.

"Well, hi there, Quinn," smiles the occupant as they evidently tip back their goblet for a drink.

Momentarily befuddled, Quinn blinks and looks around, her eyes fast arriving upon the sight of Luna Lovegood. How had Quinn not seen her before? The green-eyed witch flattens her lips into a thin line. Witches seem more like ninjas than actual witches here half the time.

"Hey," Quinn yawns, now grabbing what looks like the English version of sausage as well as a platter of scrambled eggs.

"I'm happy to see you're doing so well," Luna croons, closing her eyes as she flashes Quinn a rather jovial smile. Quinn is left to shift her eyebrows upward as she, too, now takes a shallow swig of whatever is in her cup. Though, almost at once, Quinn nearly chokes on the awkward concoction called 'pumpkin juice' and very nearly dribbles some of it off her chin before catching it with a napkin.

"Yeah," coughs Quinn, her tone airy and strained as she attempts to expel the remainder of the drink from her windpipe. "I'm fine." Mentioning the headaches isn't necessary, anyway. Quinn figures that they aren't a big deal.

"That's lovely," is what Luna deduces before flipping the page of the magazine in front of her.

At this point, and after issuing a noncommittal noise in acknowledgment to Luna, Quinn allows her attention and her eyes to drift. They float along the whim of her interest, over the heads of fair- and dark-haired pupils alike. She sees sharp and dull features, muted colors and the occasional loud accent shade. All in all, for a school of magic, the mess hall is strikingly  _ordinary_. Save for a few, small magic 'tricks' and bumbling chocolate frogs (Quinn hates the damned things), everything is normal. Kids are eating breakfast. Nothing is awry or alarming in the slightest.

The random pang of foreign disappointment that she feels because of this conclusion perplexes Quinn for only a moment. Her gaze has moved on now, casting aside its approach of simply skimming the crowds. She wants to see them now, to actually scrutinize their faces. In essence, she wishes to 'people-watch.' Consuming her breakfast more or less takes a backseat as she only vaguely shovels a miniscule piece of bacon into her mouth every now and then.

The pickings are few. Stupidly, she has placed herself with her back to the Slytherin and Hufflepuff tables. This leaves her only with the view of, wouldn't you know it, the Gryffindors. Almost unconsciously, she rolls her eyes while crunching loudly on the end of her current piece of bacon. Combing through the crowd of various shades of scarlet, gold, and orange, Quinn finds that there aren't many students that particularly catch her eye. There are girls with doe eyes, large and intrusive; and others with teeth too big for their mouths (mostly of the younger sort). The boys are squat, average, or unhealthily muscular; however, almost all of them look smug to at least some degree. Quinn has to openly resist the urge to turn up her nose as she continues down the table.

With the older students sitting more toward the middle and far-end, she spies girls long-since visited by the puberty fairy and others that would sooner see Saint Nicholas himself than that prejudice nymph. It is, of course, the sea of acne that brings Quinn the most discomfort. As though poltergeists inhabited her hands in that moment, she wordlessly sweeps her free left hand up to her cheek to touch. She thinks how she would never allow her skin to wind up as mortifying and disgusting as some of these girls. Sighing somewhat, she moves further along the line, caring little for the remainder of the batch until she spies the most piteous lot of all. All she needs to see is the bushy arrangement of brown hair before she knows where she has landed herself.

Flanked by Carrot-Top Weasley and the Potter boy sits Hermione Granger pining boisterously over what looks to be a moving newspaper. Quinn blinks as though to correct her vision, but no; the images on the newspaper are most definitely mobile. She fights back a sort of groan. This place just keeps throwing her curveballs. With her eyes still vaguely on Hermione, she gropes blindly for another strip of bacon. It is debatable just how long this particular task takes her, for she barely has the end it past her lips when someone whom she has forgotten present stirs beside her.

"You've been staring at Hermione for quite some time now, Quinn," says Luna conversationally.

Quinn pauses with the end of the bacon poised on the tip of her tongue. This is also around the same time that Hermione and Quinn lock eyes, which causes Quinn to very swiftly (and as casually as possible) avert her gaze.

"No," manages Quinn, as she wrinkles her nose petulantly. "I have not."

"Yes, you have, actually," again, Luna's voice is an aloof lilt. "Several minutes I think it's been now."

Slowly, the corners of Quinn's pale, rosy lips curve downward. Now frowning, she furrows her eyebrows just as she cranes her head to look at Luna.

"I wasn't looking at her. I was just thinking," in Quinn's mind, this is the end of that subject. Though there is something about the dull interest in Luna's deep silver eyes that tell her that she will not be getting out of this that easily.

"She's rather pretty, isn't she?"

With the bacon back in her mouth now, Quinn only just manages to catch herself before she has the opportunity to choke. All the same, she then essentially slams the blameless strip of cured meat on the tabletop.

"Wha- I-  _stop_  doing that!"

"Doing what?" Luna asks, genuinely perplexed.

"Just saying things that-" Quinn's cheeks are flushed. "You always do that. You always say things that don't make any sense at all." For a heartbeat, Quinn thinks that Brittany Pierce would be an acceptable replacement to Luna's good-natured madness.

"I don't think it doesn't make sense," observes Luna, giggling softly. Quinn finds herself glowering at her fellow Ravenclaw.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" demands Quinn, embarrassment and anxiety crawling up her neck to rest just below her ears.  _What if people near us are listening?_ Quinn frets to herself.  _Sure, a lot of them think Luna's nutty as a fruitcake, but still._ Quinn's eyes have their attempt at furtive glances all around them, checking to see whether or not any eyes looked to be eavesdropping.

"I mean that you think she's pretty, too," at this clarification, Luna shrugs as though reciting the weather.

"I don't see what that has to do with anything, though," Quinn grumbles, clumsily impaling a collection of scrambled eggs with her fork as though they did something to personally affront her.

"Silly," breathes Luna, almost in a whisper. "You think she's pretty, so you're looking at her."

Quinn suddenly goes rigid, her eyes alight with anger.

"I don't know what it is you're getting at,  _Luna_ ," the other girl's name is said with the utmost upended 'kindness.' "but I don't look at girls— _any girl_ —like that. I'm not-" Quinn stops then, her face redder than it's ever been as she reaches gawkily for another piece of bacon. "I just don't do that, okay." immediately, the bacon goes into her mouth, a clear sign (or so Quinn thinks) that she, Quinn, wants this conversation to be over. But, Luna, Quinn fears, is not so wise.

"Oh, I wasn't saying you were a lesbian, Quinn! But, of course, it's all right if you are."

It is a single, seven-letter word— _that_ word—that sucks the air right out of Quinn. A moment later, she's choking loudly on her food as the oxygen rushes crudely back to her deflated lungs. Wheezing and hacking, she beats madly at her own chest with her right fist just as her eyes begin to redden and water from the unpleasant sensation of choking. In her mind, as she attempts to settle herself, she thinks of all the ways that she will act in revenge toward Luna for this- _this_...

"Anapneo," is what Quinn thinks she hears Luna say before everything seems to normalize. Once more, Quinn is breathing; her airway is completely clear. Shakily, she falls to her backside, wholly confused. Though, she centers herself quite quickly before rounding on the other Ravenclaw.

"YOU DON'T - WHY DID - THAT - UGH - LUNA - WHAT - ... _YOU_!"

Coherence has fled Quinn's tongue, and now she's merely seething and only distantly aware of all the eyes on the pair of them. Quinn doesn't even need to look to know that these eyes include Hermione Granger's. A low growl settles at the base of the American witch's throat.

"It's okay," Luna tells her peacefully, tugging politely at Quinn's closest sleeve which Quinn tugs violently away at once. "You don't need to yell. I understand."

At this point in time, Quinn is too flustered, too furious, to speak. She can only think her eyes as daggers that rip and tear through Luna's pale and welcoming flesh.

"I am not a," Quinn's aggrieved hiss quivers only a quarter of a second before she lowers her voice even further to conclude with: "a- a _lesbian_." Even outside of her head, Quinn knows that she sounds ridiculous.

"No," and Luna shakes her head thoughtfully, an all-too-knowing smile on her face. "no, of course you're not."

Another kind of snarl vibrates at the bottom of Quinn's throat but, near sweating and shaking from anxiety, she says nothing else. Her appetite successfully vanquished, she tosses the crushed fragments of bacon from her hand before pushing herself to her feet. Adeptly, Luna reaches for her sleeve again and, this time, catches the other blonde unawares.

"Let me show you something, okay?" a breath later and Luna, too, is standing with Quinn. Yanking her trembling and clammy arm away from Luna, Quinn glares at her, defiant and distrusting. A wave similar to sympathy looks to wash over Luna's abstract features. For a second time, she offers a hand to Quinn but not necessarily to take. "Please, Quinn. All I ask is that you trust me this one time."

Feelings of resentment and shame bubble within Quinn's half-empty stomach as she stands there, her narrowed eyes on her house-mate. At the back of her mouth, bile threatens to release itself from her lips, and yet somehow she holds it at bay. She doesn't want to this, whatever it is. Some part of her knows that it'll rattle her cage, her nerves. All this time and work that she has put into putting a cap on this—on her... her 'untraditional' feelings… would be for naught. Yet, all the same, she knows that she can't say 'no.' Can she?

 _Of course you can_ , barks her ruthless inner critic.  _Don't be stupid._ Ah, she has heard that advice before around Luna ('don't be stupid'). The circumstances are different now, of course. Quinn's eyes, as dubious as her mind, tear into Luna. Quinn lowers her head and murmurs something nasty before relenting with a sigh.

"What do you want?" Quinn spits out at last.

"Just for you to follow me, please."

It is then with great reluctance that Quinn subjects herself to this. Nevertheless, though she will only ever admit it internally, she is thankful to have something to busy herself with. As it appears as though they are leaving the Great Hall, this only doubles her unvoiced gratitude. Her anxiety would lessen, she decides, if she could get away, could brood out of earshot and view of the entire student body. Perhaps she can shake Luna off and make a mad dash for her dorm room. At least there she can lay hands on her pills, more specifically her propranolol. Her mind is pulsing, jerking, and weaving as she claps her hands in front of her waist. They are damp with cold sweat as her hands then leap up to comb themselves ritualistically through her naturally wavy hair.

Through it all, Luna says nothing to her. They walk in silence, and Quinn is left to battle her looming anxieties on her own. Quinn is torn between rage and thankfulness because of this, if only because there is a grand amount of shame that comes with her conditions. She feels weak as she lifts her right foot to ascend the stairs behind Luna and the limb trembles. Her calves and thighs quake with insecurity as they threaten to crumple beneath her weight. Still, they continue on, the other witch in the lead. It is as though nothing is wrong, as though Luna hasn't just called Quinn out on her greatest fear about herself—what she has always known but pressed neatly away at the bottom of her notice.

Unsurprisingly, Quinn hasn't always been able to escape this imminent self-realization. In her daydreams and night fantasies, she has often been plagued with wickedly Sapphic images and situations. And yet— _and yet_ , not once has she, in these dreams, felt the anxiety that she does about them—about all  _this_ —that she does in her waking life. Her nights are both her escape and her prison. In truth, she is caught wretchedly between a rock and a hard place with no sign of advancement in either direction. She, thus, subsides to bitterness and unspoken misery. Quinn takes her feelings (dirty, despicable, and unclean) and shoves them into a metaphorical box for safe-keeping. She denies herself this honesty in the hopes that somehow the feelings that she has always possessed will leave her be. But they never have, of course; and they never would, for a box cannot hold such unvarnished truths.

"Where are you taking me?" Quinn asks in monotone while tugging moodily at her own sleeves.

"We're nearly there."

Pulling herself from her presumed moping, Quinn looks up and around. It is with some relief that she realizes they're nearing Ravenclaw Tower. They arrive at the door, answer the riddle, and then Luna begins toward an odd direction. Shying away from the dormitories, Luna looks to be heading toward a completely novel (to Quinn, anyway) route. When they reach their destination, it's deserted—a corridor barren of anything save pillars of stone.

"What is this?" wonders Quinn, more to herself than to Luna.

"This is the place where I come to visit my friend Helena. You remember," Luna blinks emphatically. "the gh-"

"The ghost, yeah, I know," Quinn shivers, trying to shake the idea away that such entities actually exist. "but why did you bring me here?"

"To talk to you," she shrugs. "in private, where you'd feel comfortable."

Quinn visibly bristles.

"Whoever said that I would consent to talking to you once you brought me here?" rasps Quinn, a look of heathen fury in her eyes and, also, panic.

"Because I think you want to," Luna continues quietly. "and I know that you need to, but you're scared."

Quinn has half the mind to embed her fingernails along the length of Luna's face. Anger, pulsating and hot, surges through Quinn. She wants to leave, to flee from the situation as she always has in the past, yet she discovers that she is rooted to the spot. Some part of her  _wants_ to be here; she wants someone to listen and to understand. Her pride aches, but a small voice in the back of Quinn's head has long-since told her that she doesn't need to face this alone and unprepared.

"You don't- you don't have the right," Quinn snaps, her resolve slipping as she finds herself staring into Luna's eyes, serene and composed. The silver-eyed blonde dips her shoulders plainly.

"I shall not force you, but-"

"I- I didn't say anything about- I- you..." Wetting her lips, Quinn chomps ferociously down on her lower one. She's enraged but tired… so very, very tired. Quinn rolls her eyes as she forces herself again to meet Luna's gaze (so painfully alike her old friend, Brittany). Swallowing what is left of her dignity, Quinn exhales, looking both fatigued and exacerbated.

"I won't forget that you did this," explains Quinn with a grim expression. "that you cornered me up here and... and made me talk about these things with you."

A flash of what seems to be humor ghosts over Luna's silvery eyes as the smaller Ravenclaw laughs. For a second, Quinn thinks that Luna will defend herself, call her out for being so elementary and eager to blame, but nothing of the sort comes. Instead, Luna glides past the other blonde to stare thoughtfully out one of the windows.

"Where do you wish to begin?" Luna inquires, her focus never wavering from the outside scenery.

"What do you mean?" the hint of a grudge rests firmly on the tip of Quinn's tongue.

"Well, there is quite a lot of ground to cover," the long-haired witch maintains. "Shall we start with the state of your self-discovery? or discuss your fear of the word 'lesbian'?"

The word sends another violent shiver down Quinn's spine, and she cringes.

"I am not gay," Quinn insists profoundly, a crooked scowl on her face.

"But I didn't say you were," blinks Luna, tearing her eyes away from the greenery far beyond for only a moment to cast a look back at Quinn. "All right, perhaps the first choice, then," Luna's hands brush idly over the stone as she appears to be thinking. "Do you like girls?"

"No," Quinn's answer is quick and decisive.

"Oh?" distant intrigue tickles the inflection of Luna's wind-chime voice. "Not even the girls that are your friends?"

Bothered, Quinn shuffles uneasily back-and-forth on her feet.

"You didn't- I thought you meant-" a hiss slides through Quinn's clenched teeth. "Of course I do. That's different."

"Is it, really?" Luna ponders this thought aloud, leaving Quinn perplexed as to whether or not an answer is expected of her. "Is it really that different? Girls are lovely, you know. It's all right to like them—and to, of course, love them."

"I didn't say that it wasn't okay," gripes Quinn. "just that I didn't, at least not- not in the way you're insinuating."

"But am I insinuating anything?"

Annoyance shifts uncomfortably on the surface of Quinn's features, but she says nothing yet as Luna appears poised to continue.

"You assume too much, Quinn," Luna's light critique is soft and nonjudgmental. "I wasn't at all asking if you were  _attracted to_  girls, or even if you'd be interested in  _seeing_  one romantically. I was asking whether or not you liked them."

Silence falls between the pair of them, and Quinn finds, quite miraculously, that she has no idea how to combat this claim. Her heart begins to pump more erratically in her chest at this realization. Is Luna right?  _Well, of course she is_ , a section of her mind proclaims. Though, another part still screams for her fellow Ravenclaw's severed head on a platter for such slander.

"Do you disagree?" pursues Luna, after a few seconds pause.

 _Yes_ , bellows Quinn's inner critic,  _just - say - yes._

"No," Quinn mutters flatly, sounding just as exhausted as she had ever been.

Not an ounce of smugness befalls Luna in the aftermath of Quinn's affirmation. In fact, the girl merely turns on her heels, her eyes resting delicately on her classmate.

"But why does this make you so sad?"

"It doesn-" Quinn doesn't need to meet Luna's eyes this time to know that there's no use for the half-hearted cover-ups anymore. Shrugging blandly, the former cheerleader simply frowns. "I don't know."

"There is," Luna persists, padding lightly toward Quinn. "nothing to be ashamed of, no matter what it is you discover yourself to be."

"Yeah," mumbles Quinn a bit too frigidly. "The place I came harped all about that- about self-acceptance or whatever. I don-" she drops her hands to her sides. "I don't know. It just seems more complicated when it's on your end, I guess. I tried—ah, try—not to think about it. It doesn't matter."

At this, the corners of Luna's lips curve down.

"That's untrue," she observes. "very untrue, in fact. You seem rather unhappy."

A single laugh, airy and sour, expels itself from Quinn's pursed lips. She wants to disagree but discovers quite pitifully that she can't. Quinn opts, instead, to shake her head sardonically.

"It's not a big deal," dismisses Quinn. "I just... have a lot on my mind."

"And you would have a lot less if you would simply  _relax,_ and be true to yourself," Luna explains to her, her tone uncharacteristically firm.

Quinn turns her nose up slightly at both the idea and Luna. Where does this girl get off running off at the mouth as though she's some esteemed therapist? Quinn's green eyes narrow with distaste more toward the concept than at Luna herself. The American teenager feels she's already had her fair share of therapists trying to tell her how to live her life and work out her so-called 'issues.'

"But you know," continues Luna, frowning still. "you knew, and you still know."

"Know  _what_?" Quinn bites back feebly.

"I can see it in your eyes. You know; you know, and yet you still won't accept it about yourself," Luna's voice is deeply saddened now as she stands at arm's reach of Quinn.

"I can assure you that I have no idea what you're talking about-"

"You're hurting yourself," once more, Luna's tone is back to being conversational. "or you're afraid or both. But you shouldn't be."

"And why shouldn't I be?" demands Quinn fiercely. "knowing what I know about the world? about all the assholes in it? I've seen th-"

"I don't doubt that you have, Quinn, but this isn't fair  _to you_. Have you ever allowed yourself the liberty to fall in love? to even catch a glimpse? to dream?" Luna sways her head back and forth dismally as though shaking away a briefly dark thought. "You're young and good-looking, and you deserve the happiness that comes with being such—that comes with being  _alive_."

Quinn's feet shudder over the stones beneath them. She thinks that she'll fall, that she'll crumble to her knees, but she never does. No, instead, she's looking at Luna, who's looking at her, and Quinn's biting the inside of her cheek. She says nothing, because there's nothing to say. There is nothing that will justify what she has spent more than half of her life doing. Though her pride rejects the very inkling of the idea, Quinn knows that Luna's right. The corners of Quinn's eyes seem to dampen, but the blonde quickly bats away any sort of lurking moisture and presents her back to the younger Ravenclaw.

"But what if... what if I'm not ready?" Quinn murmurs breathlessly, her chest tightening. She hears, but does not see, Luna shift nearer to her.

"If you weren't ready, would you have followed me up here to begin with?" queries Luna. "You're a very smart girl, Quinn. You knew what I hoped to accomplish by bringing you here."

The glimmer of a grin echoes almost invisibly across Quinn's face. She swallows again and turns about to look down at the other girl.

"But I don't want to say it out loud," Quinn's explaining at once. "Once it leaves my mouth, it's out there, and I can't take it back."

Luna lets her shoulders sag.

"That is yours to decide. Speak it not aloud but inside, if you must."

Appearing just as doubtful as ever, Quinn crosses her arms over herself protectively, saying nothing at all. She feels violated but knows that this isn't Luna's fault. It's her strong resolve, her years-old cover-up, that houses these negative feelings. Though, it is only further unhelpful still that Quinn now feels entirely naked and exposed to Luna after only knowing her for these few, short weeks.

"Might I ask you a personal question?"

It's a laughable inquiry from Luna, and at first, Quinn does present a half-sneer, half-snort of disbelief.

"'If you must,'" says Quinn, repeating Luna's own words back to her as dull-ended weapons.

"Is it safe to assume that you've never been with a girl, then? That is to say, you've never caressed or, say, kissed one?"

Had Quinn been drinking or eating anything, she is absolutely certain that she would have inhaled every morsel on the spot. Though, entirely stationary, she still fears asphyxiation from the sheer shock that follows this admittedly customary question.

"I didn't - why would I - I - what -  _NO_!" sputters Quinn, so red that her skin looks as though it has suffered a most severe case of sun overexposure. "Ha-have- have  _YOU_?" her tone is suddenly accusatory and childish. Luna just smiles.

"It's all right," chimes the shorter witch. "and, yes, if you happen to be interested, I feel that I must say that I have."

Quinn worries briefly if her cheeks, neck, and ears will be stained permanently red. Ashamed of her unquestionable openness in the face of this Luna Lovegood, she tilts her face away from the other witch and bites the inside of her cheek again. She hates herself for the mortification that she feels at Luna's honest revelation. More horrifying still is that Quinn realizes that she herself possesses a certain... _jealousy_ , as though she has been one-upped by an individual that she deems as lower-ranked than herself.

"Well, I- I- me-mean-"  _Stuttering like a child with a speech impediment, Fabray. Get it together!_ Quinn's inner voice is vindictive, and this causes the blonde to raise her chin a little. "My old... friends, Brittany and Santana- they tried to get me to... to... you know."

"To shag them?" prompts Luna distractedly. Quinn fears that she doesn't need an American to English slang dictionary to comprehend this. She sputters and almost chokes on her own tongue at the presentation of it all.

" _No_!" as soon as the word leaves Quinn's mouth, she knows that it doesn't sound the least bit convincing. Though, she also recognizes that she doesn't need to explain, because the clever and dreamy-eyed Luna seems to have caught on to Quinn's blatant masquerade long ago.

"I see," Luna deduces kindly, a light smile on her lips as she spins about to peer at Quinn. "And you never obliged them?"

"MmfffmphgmgfmI-noIdidn't," comes Quinn's rapid and muffled reply.

"Not even a little peck?"

"A peck doesn't mean anything," Quinn grumbles, her face growing hotter by the second. "Sure, a peck. I mean, I peck my grandmother."

"Have you kissed a boy, then?"

Agitated, Quinn snorts.

"Of course I have! Who hasn't?"

Humor etches itself across the lines of Luna's face as she settles back on the balls of her feet. She looks upon Quinn with an expression of genuine amusement.

"That's all very well," denotes Luna with an air of frivolity. "but do you know how to kiss a girl?"

Unable to bear it any longer, Quinn buries her face in her hands and groans softly.  _This - is - too - much._  With nausea creeping at the base of her stomach and an undying red palette now seemingly masking her natural shade, she realizes that she has allowed herself to dig her own grave in which she would now need to lie in. She exhales, licks her lips, and stares miserably over at Luna whom smiles pleasantly still.

"Why would I need to know that? It can't be any different."

"Oh, but it is. You see," with her hands resting at the small of her own back, Luna steps leisurely forward. "from personal experience I've learned that boys, while wonderful in their own right, take a far different approach to snogging than girls do. Boys are more rough—more devil-may-care and... unrefined, if you will. Most of them have no set technique. They know only, unless you verbally tell them otherwise, what will make them feel good. This is, of course, all right but potentially problematic if one of you doesn't speak up eventually.

"Girls, however, have always been more conscious of my needs, as well as their own. Their kisses are more precise and poignant, deliberate yet soft. Both sexes, I've learned, have their perks. Depending on your mood or preference, either sex could be more than admirable partners. Yet, it is girls that I'm sure you're more curious about in this particular department, Quinn. Am I correct to assume so?"

 _NO! BECAUSE - I - AM - NOT - A - LESBIAN_. Her surface thoughts prod and pester her to screech this, to grasp Luna by the face to somehow make her understand. Yet, she does nothing of the sort. Quinn stands there, forehead caressed in her right hand, speechless and drained. She manages only a faint bob of her head, supposing that if she plays along that all of this will come to a quicker end than if she continues to resist.

"Do I have your permission to enlighten you?" poses Luna, standing directly before Quinn. The taller blonde just sighs and combs her fingers through her own hair sloppily.

"Whatever- I... yeah. Fine."  _One more minute of mental agony, Lovegood, and then I'm out of here._

Quinn hasn't the foggiest idea what else Luna could say about the matter. Her description of the differences between the affections of boys and girls has furtively piqued Quinn's interests, but Quinn will never say this aloud. Frankly, it's intrigued Quinn more than she herself can comprehend. It is probably this and this alone that permits Quinn to keep her small basket of wits about her when Luna stirs on tip-toe and presses her silky lips to Quinn's. There is a moment of suspension in the domain of space and time. At first, Quinn thinks herself to be unconscious and dreaming. After all, this can't have happened. There isn't a girl attached to her, Quinn Fabray, at the lips—a girl that is her friend; but a mere  _girl_  at all.

The offspring of a gargled croak and sputtering cry perishes at the bend of Quinn's throat as she lurches woozily backward, her shoulder blades just catching the wall that had been directly behind her. Luna's attentions are docile and temperate, as though Quinn herself is the one in control of the outcome of the situation. They stand, Quinn's knees near buckling, against the wall with Luna standing poised and at Quinn's disposal. A wildfire strikes to life somewhere within Quinn in this instance, and for a moment, she's confused. Does she kiss her back? Does she knee her between the legs? In any case, Quinn had given her permission. Vague or not, she- she had ...

Luna's lips are moving against Quinn's now, disciplined albeit solid. The shorter witch's hands have found the undersides of Quinn's jaw, and they cup her there delicately, feathery and flippant. It is as though a single twitch of movement could send those blithe hands flying backward, up, up and away. A certain ache resonates in the pit of Quinn's abdomen now, and she forgets for a moment that she is supposed to stark-raving furious. Her body doesn't move and nor do her limbs, but Quinn works in counter to Luna's momentum at last with her own supple lips brushing deliberately against the other girl's. Arms stiffly and nervously at her sides, Quinn allows herself at long last to breathe in, and she's greeted with the musky aroma of Luna's eccentric and earthy bottled scent.

Truly courteous and polite hands slide down the structure of Quinn's neck. Down and down they travel, rolling over her shoulder blades and then her shoulders, her flanks and then the small of her back. It is there that they rest respectfully as Quinn's hands, now twitching almost eagerly at her sides, seem to ache to reciprocate, but still they remain stationary.

At that time, just as quickly as it had begun, it ends. Luna moves back, hands now at her sides, smiling that far-off, distant dreamer's grin of hers.

"Well, there you have it," Luna explains with muted grandeur. "now you have the experience of what it's like to kiss a girl. I do hope that practical account helped," she shrugs as though speaking plain knowledge, all while Quinn stares, quite ineptly, at her. "Oh, and your lip gloss, it's quite nice. It reminds me..." the Ravenclaw witch considers this matter for half a moment. "...of peaches. Yes."

Quinn thinks that she herself ought to have died at this very moment.

* * *

They did not loiter long after that. While Luna had been cordial and instructive, a right satisfied teacher to Quinn's baffled student, Quinn had wanted to get the hell out of Dodge. Bidden a merry  _'good luck!'_ by Luna, Quinn quite literally stumbles from the Tower.

In truth, as she exits, she essentially discovers herself to be scampering down and away from the place. Her mind is floating, and her entire body is flushed. She is terrified, and it has nothing to do with Luna Lovegood and everything to do with the rush of previously captive feelings that now play freely in the realm of her consciousness. Panicked and unable to face the Ravenclaw common room in this state of mind and appearance, she more or less dives down the many staircases in the direction of anywhere. Anywhere that would soothe her paranoia over potential 'prying eyes' would do. Red-faced and out of breath, she merely wants a hiding place, somewhere moderately dignified (a mere broom closet simply would not do).

Even so, she finds her sudden arrival at the entrance to the great Hogwarts library somewhat bewildering. Though Quinn recognizes that now is not the time to question the reasoning behind her unconsciousness' desire to fulfill her original intentions for the day, she simply can't shake the sensation of familiarity that engulfs her as she pushes frantically through the doors. With her arms draped frightfully about herself, she emerges and peers about, dimly aware of the gaze of the stern-eyed librarian on her. Thankfully, however, the woman doesn't speak but drop her head to mutter something about disrespectful children. Quinn releases a long-held collection of air. She is here. She is here, and now all she needs to do is find a place to sit. Yes, she would find a place to sit and relax, maybe find a book to pretend to read (for her thoughts are far too uncontrolled to manage any sort of tangible concentration). She could begin to erase everything from the last few minutes from her mind.

"Quinn?"

Quinn's already scarlet cheeks try a shiny and new cherry shade on for size as the Ravenclaw witch spins about dreadfully.

"Quinn Fabray, is that you?"

Sitting alone at a table stacked at least three arms high with books is Hermione Granger, and she wears an expression of subdued concern. Quinn thinks that she really and honestly ought to have died then and there, given that she had unfairly made it out of the Ravenclaw Tower unscathed. Licking her lips, she tips her chin up and, frowning, allows her eyes to meet Hermione's with a sort of bored air. She then clears her throat, and Quinn knows at once that this is the worst acting job that she has ever in her life put on.

"Yes," huffs Quinn. "Can't a girl visit the library without police-questioning,  _Granger_?"

A strike of battered defiance assumes its position in Hermione's dark brown eyes which promptly narrow. Any sort of concern that she had once possessed appears to have drained swiftly out of her to be replaced with stone-cold, forced professionalism.

"You needn't be rude," Hermione says tersely. "I was only asking because you seemed ill, but I can see that if you're well enough to be insulting then you're well enough indeed."

Quinn bites back a derisive laugh. The irony is almost too much for her.

"I just... was running."

"Running through the school?" gasps Hermione, an authoritative frown turning down her lips and eyebrows.

"No, running through the Serengeti," Quinn quips sarcastically. "Of course the school."

"That's against th-"

"-against the rules, yeah. I'm aware."

For several seconds, the two girls merely stare at one another. Hermione seems to be deciding the best course of action: should she let the matter slide, corner Quinn at a later hour, or discipline her shamelessly for her grave misconduct here and now? Quinn just seems vexed, and the only thought in her mind is whether or not others (namely, Hermione) can smell her recent lesbian experience on her. Oh, god, what if Quinn reeks of Luna's perfume? does Quinn's own face tell the tale of what had transpired in Ravenclaw Tower? Her heart thunders traitorously in her chest.

"Why are you shaking?" Hermione inquires firmly, her eyebrows knitted.

"What?" the word is out of Quinn's mouth without any sort of thought. Immediately, she stands up tall, hoping that she again looks domineering and in-command. "I'm not shaking. Maybe I'm cold."

"Why, it must be at least twenty-one degrees Celsius in here..." notes Hermione with a look of utter confusion.

"I can be cold if I want to be cold," Quinn snaps, at last garnering the attention of the bossy librarian who promptly wails an extended  _'shhhhhhush'_  in hers and Hermione's direction. The blonde casts a dirty look to the old woman before crossing her arms. "and, anyway, it's none of your business."

"Pipe down," Hermione speaks to Quinn in an inflated stage-whisper. "and come here for a second."

Quinn isn't quite sure why her legs seem to obey so easily, but she is drifting toward Hermione almost instantly. With her back still to the librarian, Quinn permits herself only to stand a good leap away from Hermione's table.

"Quit being stupid," mutters Hermione irritably. "Sit down, or you'll get us both thrown out."

Taking a full five seconds to glare murderously at Hermione, Quinn sits down with a negligent and rather loud 'thump.' Almost at once, her arms are back to being crossed over her still-heaving chest. She frowns like a disciplined five-year-old, and Hermione barely wastes her time hiding the roll of her eyes.

"Now, what are you going on about? What did you do?"

"What did  _I_  do?" rages Quinn. "What makes you think I did anything? I told you. I was running."

"We've established this, yes," Hermione declares tetchily. "but that leads me to think you've done something you ought not have."

"Glad to see you've got so much faith in me, O Great Student Mentor," Quinn drones irreverently. "if you must know, I set the whole building on fire and blamed it on the creepy old fossil with the cat."

Hermione chortles quietly in goaded disbelief before peering at Quinn with an expression of shrewd judgment on her face.

"You can't have possibly done such a thing. Hogwarts isn't some feeble Muggle construction, Quinn, and for your information Mr. Filch is a valued member of the Hogwarts' staff!"

"And you're a brown-nosing know-it-all that wouldn't know sarcasm if it crawled up your nose and died."

"You-!"

" _Shhhhhhhuuuuuuuuuuuussssshhh_!" The librarian, Madame Pince, looks a pestered beast in her own right as she glowers at the pair of them, a clear message of 'put up or shut up' displayed broadly on her sagging face. Hermione is quick to blush with shame as she mumbles a hasty apology to the woman. Quinn just looks smug.

"You," Hermione is whispering now as she leans across the table toward Quinn. " _you_  are a rude and terrible girl, Quinn Fabray."

"Thanks for the compliment," hums Quinn breezily, leaning back on her chair distractedly. The brunette across from her retains a light flush to her cheeks as she hurries back into her massive book, readily ignoring Quinn. This all works very well for the blonde whom really just requires a moment to collect herself before she can leave. With Hermione ears-deep in her reading material, Quinn assumes that she can just pretend that Hermione's bowed head of bushy hair is an over-fluffed mouse. The mental image amuses her little, and this gives Quinn just the window of opportunity that she needs to settle down and move in an entirely different and more serious direction. Her gaze rests comfortably on the curve of Hermione's head as Quinn thinks back to just moments before. She had been up in the Tower. Luna had taken her there. They had talked about a lot of things, mainly Quinn's long-time pink elephant—her sexuality.

It has always been there. A person's recollection about their sexual preference is scarcely much of a surprise when a bit of soul-searching and past-reflecting is performed. The true matter is that Quinn has kept it at bay, so to speak. In an attempt to 'will it away,' she has pushed it away—locked it away, even. As she thinks of it even now, she cringes and shifts a little in her seat uncomfortably. It isn't a topic that she feels at liberty to consider mentally, much less verbally, at all. She still feels awkward and somehow unclean. All the years that she had spent with her heavily conservative, strict Protestant father have never left her. It is a unique situation for Quinn. Though she has condemned her mother and father's creed and dogma for almost a full year now, though she has...  _gay_  friends of her own, she can't fathom the circumstances being inverted.

 _I can't be gay_ , is what she had told and thusly convinced herself time and time again.  _I'm pretty. I'm a cheerleader. I'm a Christian._

Then, she had gotten pregnant, and the mantra had congealed further.

_I can't be gay. See? I let Puckerman have sex with me. Now I'm pregnant with his baby, and he's a boy. I slept with a boy, so... I can't be gay._

Yet, she still found her appreciative eyes on other girls, most notably on Rachel Berry. Quinn had found herself enthralled with the small-in-stature, egotistical Broadway singer, and so she had sought to make the pretty brunette's life a living hell to pay for it.

Soon enough, however, Quinn's father, enlightened of her pregnancy, would cast Quinn away, and her inner critic would take full control of the wheel:

_I can't be gay. Haven't I been through enough already, God? What did I do to deserve this, God? I'm pretty; I'm – pretty! I'm not a cheerleader anymore, but that doesn't matter, does it, God? I'm still not gay, right, God? Hello! Are you even there? I can't be gay. I just can't._

Toward the end of Quinn's second trimester, a kind of frosty understanding had settled between herself and her brutal inner voice. Quinn had more or less 'accepted' that she had these, as she had always called them, 'enigmatic' feelings for other girls, and the critic within her had agreed not to bother her as much with them because of this frigid recognition. This had opened the door through which Quinn could oblige these long-ignored feelings without having to necessarily think about or analyze them too much afterward. She had, in the mask of an antagonist, sought after Rachel to tame the broad sensation of desire inside of her. It had worked for months, until Quinn had neared her due date—until... Quinn had given birth. Everything had gone downhill from there, as they say.

 _And now I'm here_ , Quinn thinks oddly to herself, her eyes still resting unwavering upon the still-bowed head of Hermione.

Quinn rationalizes that she should be upset with Luna. She had trusted her, after all. Luna is her friend and just that. Quinn knows where her feelings for Luna stand, and it is with the utmost certainty that she knows the kiss in the Tower has not changed that. Sure, the kiss had been nice. It had most definitely felt good, and Quinn hadn't stopped her. She had given her permission, even. The blonde finds it almost queer now that she reflects upon it, the kiss.

In nature, the characteristically romantic gesture had been purely instructive. Luna had been showing her how kissing boys and kissing girls differs. Quinn knows that she feels only friendly toward the other blonde, and yet the kiss had been, for lack of a better term, extremely  _erotic_. Quinn had kissed many boys in her dating life, and none of them had ever succeeded in making her feel as Luna had done. The real puzzle is the fact that Quinn had thought she had liked those boys romantically in the past, too. Then a person of the same sex that Quinn had considered a friend alone had kissed her, and it had been monumentally more superb.

Naturally, this frightens Quinn. She has never kissed a girl in that way before; regardless of how many times Brittany and Santana had tried to persuade her otherwise. They had kissed her cheek and her neck, and that had brought with it all sorts of needling, tingling sensations, but she had never once allowed them to truly kiss her. Now it is as though part of Quinn regrets this, but it is with a heated blush that she swats this thought away. She allows her eyes instead to focus on Hermione again.

The girl is reading still with her head held up blandly by the palm of her left hand. Hermione's eyes are dancing across the pages, rapid and intrigued, even if this almost gives the witch an air of stress. Those unbridled, brown waves of hair present themselves wherever they are able: over her shoulders, splayed across the tops of her arms, against her rounded cheeks.  _Really_ , Quinn muses quietly,  _if she would just invest in a straightener and wasn't such a brat, she'd almost be kind of pretty._ Quinn permits herself this one luxury as she studies Hermione in silence. She pegs it as her one acceptable, unconventional scrutiny about the other girl. That is to say, it is the one observation that she may insist without having to question herself afterward.

Then Quinn's eyes travel down the curved shape of Hermione's face to her subtle, pale lips, and Quinn is unexpectedly overwhelmed with idea of what kissing Hermione would be like. Alarm cascades into her stomach sharp as a jagged, falling boulder. Would kissing Hermione be the same as it had been when Luna had kissed her? or would it be somehow different? Quinn finds that she can't allow her eyes to remain on the girl any longer. Sinking just a fraction of a centimeter in her chair, she casts her gaze up and away, examining some unidentifiable bookshelf with a sense of impending doom in her stomach.

The familiar presence of one of her archaic mantras beckons her, ( _'But I just can't be gay... can I?'_ ) and for the first time in her life, she pauses for a moment of prolonged, fearful, and genuine consideration.


	10. Butterflies and Hurricanes

Somewhere between July and August, Quinn has stopped keeping a conscious track of time. Generally indifferent, she assumes that there are others that will pick up her slack someplace along the assembly line. Be this as it may, her gut tells her that the holiday season is looming ever near, a dark and ominous cloud over her head. In a fit of weakness, this leads her to check the calendar only to discover that September has passed the baton for the inauguration of October. If nothing else, Quinn can smile to herself knowing that she has all of October and November standing between her and Christmas. This is a soothing thought as Quinn faces an entire morning of being manhandled by the bug-eyed Trelawney. Today, as they see to at least twice a week, they work alone in Trelawney's vacant classroom toward understanding the limits and finer details of Quinn's alleged 'gift.'

"Caress the crystal ball now, dear!" warbles Trelawney, her arms outstretched wide in a massive gesticulation.

Quinn, licking her lips, blinks her attention back to the crystal ball that lies on the small, circular table in front of her. It is utterly blank and shows only a hideous distortion of Quinn's face. Trelawney has commanded that Quinn pet, stroke, and grope at this crystal ball for the better part of a half hour now.

"Nothing," Quinn yawns.

"You see," the Divinations professor is frowning. "nothing? Nothing still?"

"Nope. Just as I've said the other twenty-four times you've asked, Professor."

"Oh, well," Trelawney sniffs. "This just won't do. Won't do."

As she often does during their sessions, the elder witch seems to drift far away into some dream-like state. She does not look at Quinn but at some distant, far-off void. Quinn is left to her own devices as she stares impassively at the divination tool in front of her. For weeks they have sat in this room, and in all those weeks, they have discovered nothing that would allude to the inner-workings of Quinn's supposed 'powers.' Really, if it had not been for Quinn's many uncanny experiences since stepping through the doors of Hogwarts, she would have thought this a lost cause. It is, however, Quinn's vivid nightmares and her vision upon first meeting Dumbledore that keep her here. She wants to understand the vague familiarity that engulfs her.

"Perhaps tarot," begins Trelawney as she pulls her shawls more snugly around herself. "tarot, yes."

"We tried that already," drones Quinn, her right fist slipping onto the swell of her cheek to keep her head propped up. "just before the crystal ball."

"Yes. Yes, of course," the professor seems troubled now. "tea leaves?"

"Tried it," Quinn shrugs. "You just kept predicting Harry Potter's 'untimely demise.'"

At the time, Quinn had found this quality of Trelawney's humorous. Now it merely causes her alarm. If Quinn truly is a Seer, would she become as obsessed with death as Sybill Trelawney? Would she be as batty and as feverish? Quinn certainly hopes not. If this winds up the case, she reasons that she simply must correct it somehow. In any case, death makes her incredibly uncomfortable. Such is why she refuses to open up to the idea of supposedly being able to see into the future entirely. There is a certain amount of trepidation that comes with this burden that most would call a 'gift' or 'talent.'

Trelawney remains silent for a moment as she looks to consider the remainder of their options. There are several ticks of quiet before the woman pipes up with a glimmer of excitement in her enlarged eyes.

"Ah, yes! Then that leaves us with palmistry."

"No," the word flings itself off Quinn's tongue before even Quinn realizes that she has said it. Knitting her eyebrows, Professor Trelawney shuffles toward her apprentice.

"You have denied me this particular branch of Divination study since the beginning," Trelawney points out. "At some point, you are going to have to accept the fact that it is an important practice in your field, my dove."

 _My_   _field?_  Quinn yearns to scoff, but she bites her tongue. Her eyes travel now to her own hands, scanty and lined. It seems daft, her adopted phobia of touch. Yet Quinn can practically  _see_  the foreign, translucent waves of power emanating from her hands. They, her hands, seem strangers to her now, as though they are limbs that have not always belonged to her. Facing defeat, she, after another moment's dawdling, gazes back up to Trelawney.

"If you must," mutters Quinn, wrinkling her nose as though she has smelled something particularly nasty. Straight away, Trelawney is upon her, reaching for her hands.

"Give me them," Trelawney exclaims with gusto. "Give me your hands!"

For a beat, Quinn simply stares at her. With her lips curled in disgust, Quinn notices a sudden pang of anxiety settling within her. She hesitates, the pads of her fingers brushing against their palms, before at last permitting the professor to grasp her hands. The effect is instantaneous.

As though Quinn has been cast abruptly into ice-cold water, she gasps, suddenly suffocated by the darkness that surrounds her. The overwhelming scent of spirits tickles Quinn's nose for a split second, causing her to feel temporarily lightheaded. She feels herself shudder but can see nothing, save a great darkness. Quinn stands alone in the midst of a vacuum of black. There is silence, but then there are footfalls, rampant and quick. They sound as though they disintegrate the very path in which they run, and with them, too, come the cries of vengeance. They want something, but what? Quinn stumbles forward blindly, her arms outstretched. The air is cold and relentless as it collects at the back of her throat like a tangible block of ice.

 _'YOU HAVE RETURNED ONCE MORE,'_  croaks a familiar voice right at Quinn's left ear. Strangely, Quinn does not start. She knows this presence at once to be her Teacher.

"I hadn't intended to," remarks Quinn uncouthly.

 _'YES. I KNEW OF THIS,'_  is all Teacher says before giving Quinn a sense that the bodiless entity has shifted nearer.  _'BUT YOU MUST. YOU ALWAYS MUST.'_

To this, Quinn says nothing at all. She merely stands in the company of the darkness and the frameless Teacher in shrewd silence.

 _'YOU HAVE COME FOR THE PROPHECY, NO DOUBT,'_  Teacher continues in a rasp.  _'AND THE WARNING.'_

"What prophecy?" Quinn frowns impetuously, looking in the direction that she believes Teacher to be. "and what warning?"

_'OPEN YOUR MIND, AND YOU SHALL SEE.'_

It seems a right joke or perhaps a play on Quinn's intelligence. Thus, the teenage witch scowls further still.

"I haven't the time for your semantics," barks Quinn. "Now, either give me what I've come for, or-"

 _'YOU APPROACH THE FORTHCOMING WITH IMPROPER FOOTING, QUINN FABRAY. YOU WILL FALL,'_ grunts Teacher, an unexpected burst of sentiment in the being's gnarled voice.  _'A SEER MUST BE FLEET-FOOTED AND WELL-KEMPT OF TONGUE. YOU SPEAK WITH THE ARTICULATION OF A CHILD.'_

Fury, hot and wild, surges through Quinn at these words.

"Who are you to call me a child?"

_'I AM YOUR TEACHER.'_

This gives Quinn reason for pause. Glaring defiantly at the empty spot where her Teacher should be, she - for a brief moment - offers this analysis a bit of due consideration. A flare of shame mingles quietly with understanding in her belly, but Quinn portrays only an expression of fortitude. Squaring her shoulders, she straightens her posture to gaze upon the indistinguishable figure of Teacher.

"You spoke of opening my mind," there is an edge of doubt in Quinn's voice.

_'TO SEE, ONE MUST LOOK, BUT IN ORDER TO LOOK, ONE MUST FIRST KNOW WHAT IT IS THEY ARE TO SEE.'_

"That makes no sens-"

 _'GIVE ME YOUR HANDS, QUINN FABRAY,'_  Teacher explains in a booming, crackling resonance.

Without even a second's delay, Quinn extends her hands to the nothingness in front of her. Warmth and comprehension spread over the young witch almost immediately, as well as a sense of proper placement.  _I'm supposed to be here._ This, however, is the last personal thought that Quinn recalls herself having, for in the moments that follow, she finds that her senses are suddenly not her own.

_'...for neither can live while the other survives...'_

_'Dead!' comes a hair-splitting wail. 'both - dead!'_

_'You were warned against trying to deceive me...' it is a strangely low and yet somehow equally high-pitched sound._

_'...CAVE FUREM. FUR NOCTU ITER FACIT... CAVE FUREM... TRUST VIATOR...'_

_'...either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...'_

_'They are coming. They are coming...'_

As though emerging from deep waters, Quinn seems to sputter back to life only to find herself being brutally shaken by a wide-eyed Trelawney. How much time has passed? Quinn glances about apprehensively, pain shooting through either of her temples as she squints at the wobbly professor before her. It is only then that Quinn realizes that she herself is sweating, and yet that her entire body is unthinkably cold. What has just happened?

"You saw..." Trelawney's face is completely drained of color, and she needs to stumble into a nearby seat to keep her knees from buckling.

"Did you...?" uncertainty paints Quinn's voice as she reaches up to rub gingerly at her left temple.

"No, my dear, no," gapes Trelawney, looking concerned. "but I know the signs, oh, I do! The far-off look of the eyes, the chill of the skin. You have taken a dip, as they say... in the Beyond."

"The Beyond?" Quinn's lips turn downward as she now scratches idly at her wildly itchy left forearm.

Professor Trelawney bobs her head.

"You have Seen, Quinn," the other witch continues shakily. "and what presented itself to you?"

Finishing her thoughtless ministrations on her left arm, Quinn stops to think. It all feels like a dream now. She feels as though she has been ripped brusquely from a deep and deliberately unremitting slumber.

"There was a presence," begins Quinn. "It's always been with me, though."

"A presence?" Trelawney echoes heatedly. "A person?"

"No," the blonde shakes her head abstractedly. "Just... a being, that exists and yet doesn't at the same time. The presence calls itself my Teacher," at this, Trelawney blanches. "and Teacher just sort of g-"

"-guides you!" proclaims the large-eyed professor as she clasps her own hands together. "My dear, you've a Spirit guide, but go on! Go on!"

For once, Quinn needs not ask what a 'Spirit guide' is. The term fits. Likewise, it sounds familiar and somehow appropriate or suiting to her ears.

"At first, I saw nothing. Everything was black. I thought I smelled some type of alcohol, and I knew that I heard something - maybe people - running, but I couldn't see a thing. That was when Teacher appeared and told me that I had come for the prophecy and the warning. I asked what Teacher was talking about, but Teac- I mean, my Guide has always talked in an odd way. But then... Teacher told me to offer up my hands. So, I did. That was when I... when I saw everything," Quinn's eyes slide closed as she remembers this.

"I can see it all still... in my mind. 'For neither can live while the other survives,' someone said; and then, 'dead! both dead!'" the words still send shivers down the young blonde's spine. " After that, someone with a high-pitched and, I don't know, I guess  _evil_ -sounding voice was saying, 'You were warned against trying to deceive me...' I just assumed that had been 'the warning' that Teacher had spoken of. Then there was Latin," Quinn isn't sure how she knows this, but it feels right to her in spite of this. In eerily precise Latin tongue, she recites: "'Cave furem. Fur noctu iter facit. Cave furem. Trust viator.' After that, it repeated the first bit that I told you, only this time it added: 'either must die at the hand of the other.' Then, it just ended with 'they are coming.'"

The words feel as though they radiate through every square inch of the room. Moreover, it feels like days before Trelawney even looks to have heard Quinn. At least Quinn can't say this bothers her; she's still holding a grudge for the rude awakening from her so-called 'vision.' That sense of being brutally whisked awake has not yet decided to leave her.

"But how," murmurs Sybill Trelawney, appearing aghast and pale as ever. "what you saw was- That was not foresight but..." she is on her feet now, pacing back and forth. Quinn has taken to simply watching with one eyebrow aloft.

"You saw into the past!" the Divinations professor blurts out. "Why, that is not... the rest I cannot speak for, and yet," Quinn looks on as Trelawney swallows unnervingly. "Dumbledore must know of this. Yes, he must."

Beating her fingertips mechanically on the tabletop, Quinn casts back some of her blond hair behind her shoulders.

"What are you talking about?" presses Quinn, still prickly from her unwanted rousing.

"My dear!" frets Professor Trelawney, suddenly aware of Quinn's remaining presence in the room. A shadow casts itself across the older woman's features. "This is graver than I could have ever foreseen."

It is odd. Quinn knows that perhaps she should feel worried, but the sensation of dread evades her. Even knowing what Trelawney intends to say does not frighten the girl just yet. She just sits with a look of pure dreariness upon her slackened face. This is, of course, until Trelawney is upon her once more, grasping for her wrists this time.

"You are in grave danger!"

"Yes, yes," Quinn rolls her eyes. "You told me this weeks ago."

"You misunderstand!" Trelawney fusses, releasing her hold on either of Quinn's wrists. "That was before, but now- oh, now. My dear-" her over-sized eyes take in Quinn's appearance solemnly. "if they - no, if the Dark Lord  _himself_  - were to discover that by mere touch alone you can see into the Unknown..."

A dreadful sort of sinking feeling at last finds its way to Quinn's insides at this. Slow and deliberate, like a heaping barrel of molasses, it drips into her belly - hot and deceptively solid. It is then that she understands what they all have been trying to convey to her all along.

_"...you are destined for either distinction or precipice... Your slumbering talent is both brilliant and potentially dangerous..."_

Quinn yearns to clutch at her chest. She feels ill and uncomfortably heavy as though gravity intends for her to lie barred to the floor. Her eyes, sticky and moist in their sockets, fall on her upturned hands once more, and she flexes them. By mere touch alone, Trelawney's voice reverberates inside her mind, by mere touch alone. Sickness creeps at the back of Quinn's mouth, tempting Quinn and daring her to even chance a moment to speak. Quinn does not give in, but she certainly wants to. How can this be possible? Moreover, how can this be  _fair_? Surely it is almost as though the powers-that-be expect her to go through her life without ever knowing the familiar touch of a kindred spirit. Why, how can she ever be expected to want to touch anyone at all after this news? Quinn finds the sensation of impending suffocation crowding all around her. What if she is to accidentally brush past someone and then to consequently foresee their death? or even the death of a friend or family member? Quinn's throat constricts tightly with anxiety.

"I don't want this," whimpers Quinn, trembling from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. "Take it. Take it away;  _take it back_. I don't want to play your game anymore."

When Trelawney doesn't answer and just stares at her, eyes as round as saucers, Quinn jerks upright, knocking her chair back from the force.

"I said, take it back! Don't you understand? I'm not cut out for this sort of thing! I-I can't- I... I just can't do this, okay? Take it back!"

"Quinn, I..."

"No! Don't you dare tell me 'no'! I didn't ask to be born with this, and I didn't know that I had been until you came  _barging_  into my life. Now take it back from me!"

Alarmed, Professor Trelawney steps back slightly. Then, in a hushed voice, she regretfully replies:

"I'm afraid that it simply does not work that way. You were born with this gift, and you will die with this gift."

Realization, potent and crushing, collapses all around and upon Quinn. Licking her lips frantically, she scratches habitually at the skin of her arms before gazing madly at Trelawney. She wants to blame her, to curse her for tossing her into this world, but the rational (and currently subdued) part of Quinn's mind knows that none of this is Trelawney's fault. Until and unless Trelawney is some sort of god or creator being, Quinn fears that she must recognize that the blame rests not with this bulging-eyed woman but elsewhere. Ergo, she falters, her mouth utterly dry and barren of intelligible words.

"You must tell no one," whispers Trelawney, her eyes fearful as she stares at her student.

Unintentionally, Quinn winces at this and numbly reaches for her things. She is moving at a healthy trot toward the door without second thought, without so much as a word of parting to her teacher.

"No one! No one at all!" the professor calls feebly after her.

Quinn has long since tuned her out. Nevertheless, she is barely out the door when she hears a small cough to her left. Face entirely exhausted of color and looking sick, Quinn reluctantly turns her head to discover a Slytherin girl appearing to be of or near her age standing there, propped against the wall beside the door. She has dark hair that is pulled back in a messy ponytail and a face like pug. In spite of this, and much to Quinn's dim surprise, the girl manages to hold onto an inkling of attraction. Quinn frowns.

"Can I help you?" the voice that comes out of Quinn's mouth sounds quite unlike her normal self. It is that of a much older and weather-worn individual, but it is Quinn nonetheless.

"Testy," judges the girl as she readjusts her posture. "I have a note for you, Fabray."

At the mention of her surname, Quinn narrows her eyes suspiciously at the stranger.

"Am I supposed to know who you are?" Quinn inquires, more contemptibly than she originally intends. The Slytherin witch snorts crudely.

"Really, you should by now," she rolls her dark eyes. "but whatever. It's Pansy Parkinson, Prefect of Slytherin."

Quinn rudely takes the extended piece of folded parchment from Pansy, ignoring her unnecessary introduction. The blonde is opening the note speedily, her eyes barely taking in the rushed and messy writing that awaits her there the first time around.

_I require that you meet with me at The Quad today during lunch hours. Your presence is mandatory._

_Draco Malfoy,  
Slytherin Prefect_

The Ravenclaw witch reads through it a couple of more times before she decides that this is either a weird attempt at a gag or that the Malfoy boy has lost his mind. Color now returning to her cheeks (a sign that Quinn is now slowly regaining her footing as her old self once more), she folds the note back to its original pattern, blinks, and then stares up at Pansy whom watches her expectantly.

"Well, you can tell  _Draco_ that I've better things to do,  _and_ -" Quinn shoves the letter roughly back into Pansy's unsuspecting hands. "-if he has something to say that he can say it to my face rather than having one of his harem pass me his little love notes as though we're all in second grade again."

Nearly missing the look of burning fury on Pansy's face, Quinn turns on her heels and starts off toward the Training Grounds without another word. This is only a momentary setback and almost a welcome one, at that. For a moment, Quinn is able to forget the conversation that has just transpired between Trelawney and her. She can put the dismal pictures of a life without the touch of other human beings out of her head and think only that she has other things that she must concern herself with. Though it is with an unfortunate and profound sense of unease that Quinn comes to recall that one of these 'things' is the particular event next-in-line for her day. She is to meet with Emmeline and Hermione for more wand-training.

Fear crawls sharply through her entrails as she begins to conjure up excuses to keep both Emmeline and Hermione's hands as far away from her as possible.

* * *

Quinn takes her sweet time picking her path to the Training Grounds. She intends to count every passing cobblestone, every painting, and every student. Anything that will prolong the inevitable suits her. Her mind is practically drowning in thoughts of,  _'how do I keep them from touching me? how do I keep them from touching me?'_ Emmeline is distant; she isn't the problem. She usually just sits on the sidelines and observes as Hermione scolds Quinn for her lack of attention to the proper technique of wand-wielding. Yes, it is  _Hermione_  that worries Quinn the most. On the other hand (and Quinn has wracked her brains to the core in order to come to this conclusion), Hermione has touched her before. Others have touched her, and she hasn't seen them dying or... anything at all, really.

With her heart rate picking up speed as the Training Grounds come into view, Quinn bites her lip and assumes a facial expression of impassiveness. Above all else, she doesn't want Hermione to pester her about this morning. Regardless of Quinn and Hermione's more or less neutral stance toward one another, Hermione has a knack for making mountains out of mole hills no matter what the subject matter. The last outcome that Quinn wants is for Hermione to talk her ears off about the now seemingly endless laundry list of precautions that Quinn would need to take to evade her own abilities. Quinn sighs, her eyes on the ground as she shuffles across the field to where Emmeline and Hermione always wait. She only lifts her head when she knows that she has arrived. Imagine her surprise, however, upon entrance, when she spies Hermione entirely alone.

"Where have you been?" Hermione laments irately. "You were supposed to be here minutes ago."

Nearly too distracted to think of a saucy retort, Quinn opts only for looking terribly sour at first. At her leisure, Quinn fumbles for her wand before striding closer to Hermione.

"Professor Trelawney kept me late."

Frowning, Hermione turns from Quinn while mumbling a distinctive and now characteristic phrase of 'that woman.' Stifling a rather big yawn, Quinn stares at the slight and aggravated bounce of Hermione's bushy hair. She expects that the other witch will begin once she has cursed Trelawney beneath her breath enough.

"No matter," continues Hermione, a hint of rose highlighting her cheeks as she turns to gaze at Quinn. "We'll begin."

A thought occurs to Quinn at this particular moment.

"Where's Emmeline?"

As though thoroughly prepared for this question, Hermione immediately replies.

"Clearly absent. She told me to begin without her, as she had other business that required her attention. It's just you and I practicing today."

A groan drowns at the bottom of Quinn's throat before it can make any audible sound. Of all people, she is left alone with Hermione. At least Emmeline seems to abhor touch. Hermione, though practical and more prone to verbal instruction, has been known to grasp at Quinn's hands when she, Quinn, wields her wand incorrectly. Quinn's heart flips dreadfully in her chest as she moistens her lips.

"Fine," mutters Quinn, brushing the pads of her right thumb and index finger gingerly over her wand.

"All right, then," Hermione coasts gracefully toward her pupil. "We'll begin more advanced work, given that your 'memories'-" she utters the word with pompous distaste, and Quinn sneers. Hermione has never made it her priority to hide her dislike for Quinn's 'unfair inheritance of knowledge,' as Hermione puts it. However, over time, she has become more or less tamer. "-seem to be catching on rather quickly. I don't expect you to get this particular charm anytime soon, of course," she says this as she steers herself closer to Quinn, causing the blonde to flinch. "but we shall begin it nevertheless: the Patronus Charm."

Quinn quirks a lazy eyebrow at the other girl.

"And what's so difficult about it, exactly?" inquires Quinn as she crosses her arms protectively over her chest. She tries to keep it cool as Hermione lingers ever closer. If she can just get through this without touching her at all, it would be a miracle. In spite of Quinn's budding anxiety and in face only of the former's cheek, Hermione chortles sarcastically.

"Ask me that again once you have been nose-to-nose with a Dementor," Hermione replies tersely.

"The ones that suck the soul right out of you with a kiss?" Quinn queries with a smirk. "I think I'll manage."

Hermione turns on Quinn, her large hair swaying dangerously with her swift motion.

"Smugness is a rather unappealing quality, you know!" hisses the brown-haired witch. "Just because you've got all your knowledge in one basket at once!  _Honestly_!"

Sensing that she has struck a chord, Quinn suppresses a grin as she leans back on her heels. This will surely keep Hermione away from her, this portrayal of arrogance and unnecessary brutality.

"So, how is it done, Granger?" wonders Quinn, a look of feigned boredom on her face.

"Hermione," snaps her mentor. "You will address me as  _Hermione_  or as nothing at all."

"All right,  _Hermione_ ," sing-songs Quinn. "Show me how it's done."

Sniffing angrily, the Gryffindor Prefect readies her wand and allows her eyes to shut. Intrigued, Quinn observes in silence, her eyes roving curiously over the curves of Hermione's able fingers and, eventually, her visibly powerful wand. Quinn notices Hermione lapsing into momentarily deep and cleansing breaths as though she intends to meditate. If nothing else, the other girl looks to be concentrating rather profoundly.

"Expecto Patronum!" Hermione summons the charm out of the blue with her wand raised skyward. A silver otter bursts from the tip of her wand almost at once and swims first around Hermione and, secondly, around Quinn. The latter gapes at the wispy creature, betraying any and all pretense of tedium. Quinn watches the manifestation dip and glide gracefully around them in a casual circle, seeming to draw the pair of girls nearer to one another. Yet a moment later, following a sensible 'pop,' the strange silver figure dissipates and leaves no trance that it had ever been.

"It's..." Quinn begins to speak but eventually stops when she is unable to find her words.

"-a Patronus, yes," breathes Hermione succinctly, looking strained from her preceding, deep focus.

"But it's an animal," the blonde observes needlessly. "Why?"

"The corporeal form of a Patronus takes the form of an animal, most often one that is said to somehow reflect the caster's personality."

Feeling suddenly inept, Quinn runs her fingernails self-consciously over the underside of her left arm.

"Yours was an otter?" Quinn asks stupidly, regretting it the moment this left her mouth. By the narrowed look of Hermione's expression, she assumes that the other girl, too, finds this question about as ridiculous as Quinn herself does.

"Yes."

"What are examples of others?" persists Quinn with a degree of stubbornness.

"Well," Hermione blinks, receiving Quinn oddly. "Ronald Weasley's is a Jack Russell Terrier; Har- I... Luna Lovegood's is a hare. Ron's sister, Ginny - well, her Patronus takes the form of a mare."

The amount of curiosity that swells in Quinn's stomach surprises even Quinn herself. What will Quinn's Patronus take the shape of? Gripping her wand at her right side, she peers at Hermione, unexpectedly determined to be able to master this particular charm as soon as possible. For the moment, she displaces all worries of avoiding Hermione's touch and thinks only of her coveted success in casting the Patronus Charm.

"So, how does it work?"

Clearing her throat, Hermione resumes the professional display of a tried-and-true professor. Quinn swats away the urge to smirk humorously at the girl.

"A Patronus, or  _spirit guardian_  as they are sometimes called, is a positive force—a shield. It will, if cast correctly, protect you against Dementors and Lethifolds, but there are other uses, as well," Hermione shrugs these 'other uses' off for the time being both literally and figuratively. "In order for you to be able to cast this charm, you need to first think of a powerful memory—the happiest memory that you can possibly recall. Let it fill you up," Hermione, Quinn sees, is as close as she has ever been now, directly behind the blond witch. She can almost feel the heat of the Hermione's warm breath on the back of her neck. "allow it to consume you, and then recite the incantation."

Nervousness prods, claws, and scratches at the lining of Quinn's stomach, even as Hermione shifts to stand more to Quinn's right to scrutinize. Quinn chews at the inside of her cheek but otherwise allows her face to display only deliberation. Nodding her head vaguely to Hermione, she readies herself, her wand just barely shaking in her white-knuckled grasp.  _A happy memory_ , she reiterates inwardly,  _I need to think of my happiest memory._  She furrows her eyebrows, thinking hard. After several moments of hesitation, Quinn pictures the day that she had been made captain of the Cheerios. Truly, it had been one of the proudest moments of her life.

Mulling deeply over this thought, this memory, she permits it to fill her up from top to bottom as she steadies her wand. A moment later and her lips are moving, speaking the words, "Expecto Patronum!" but nothing happens. Quinn looks grouchily downcast as she glowers at her wand a beat later.

"It's all right," Hermione dismisses her failure hastily. "As I said, this is advanced magic."

Regardless of this fact, Quinn is aggravated with herself. She purses her lips and stares at her wand as though it has personally wronged her.

"And anyway," Hermione is moving toward Quinn again before the latter has a chance to react. "the way that you are holding your wand is all-"

Just as Hermione's left hand is about to lie atop Quinn's, the blonde jerks back, nearly punching Hermione in the process. She is lucky to have missed, really. A hair to the left and she would have busted the other witch's nose clean.

"What in Merlin's name are you doing!" shrieks Hermione, looking both shocked and furious. "Are you  _mad_?"

"I- no! You scared me," Quinn lies idiotically. "that's all."

" _Scared_  you?" Hermione repeats with incredulity. "I was standing right next to you this entire time!"

"I must have zoned out, then," reasons Quinn through gritted teeth. Hermione simply scoffs before sighing properly in exasperation.

"Oh, all  _right_ ," she breathes heavily. "Forget it. Now, as I was saying, hold your wand like this-" Hermione lifts her own wand in the air in a manner that she intends Quinn to mimic. "and do as I told you."

Seeing little difference in the way Hermione held her wand and the method in which Quinn presented her own, the blonde's lips grow taut with unvoiced impatience. She, nevertheless, (or so Quinn supposes) copies Hermione, lifting her wand-arm a fraction of a degree higher than it had been previously. Again, Quinn thinks of the time when she had been awarded the title of Head Cheerio, of captain. She is about to will her lips to move, to utter the incantation, when she feels that breath against her neck again and a presence looming above her right hand. Quinn yelps instantaneously before drawing her limbs into herself and pretending to have tripped. The sacrifice is a great chip off her pride, but she assumes the action worth it, if only to keep Hermione's dangerous (as to Quinn all hands are now) grip off her.

"Quinn, what the-"

"Tripped!" wheezes Quinn as she scrambles in ruins from the grass, feeling embarrassed and downright idiotic.

"How on Earth did you manage  _that_?" Hermione asks, more mystified than annoyed now.

"You keep startling me! St-stop that!" with some difficulty, Quinn is capable of a tone of bellowing anger as opposed to paltry fright.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake!" the darker-haired witch tosses her hands up in both dismay and disbelief. "I was trying to help you! Your wand-arm was shaking like a leaf!"

"Tripped, I said," mutters Quinn, a resounding sensation of unadulterated stupidity pulsing through her with even more ferocity. "over... over my robes. I need to get them hemmed." her voice is a mortified growl as she begins to brush herself off. Hermione scarcely looks convinced, but she doesn't seem to want to pursue the subject any longer.

"Would you prefer we postpone until you get your wardrobe under control?" gripes Hermione, still looking absolutely befuddled by Quinn's admittedly queer behavior.

"No, I'm fine," Quinn snaps back. "Just don't... don't touch me, okay?"

A flash of what looks to be offense and perhaps even a shred of mortification passes through Hermione's dark eyes as she sustains a stiff upper lip. Tightening her jaw and crossing her arms, she merely closes her eyes and shrugs before reopening them to scowl fiercely at Quinn.

"All right. Fine. Correct your horrid posture on your own if that's how you want it," Hermione waves a lofty hand toward Quinn's wand. "Go on, then."

It is subtle, but Quinn nonetheless feels it. Guilt, heavy as damp rags, weighs down her mood. An expression of disapproval on her face, the fair-haired witch turns slightly from Hermione and keeps her right arm superior.

Just how long is Quinn supposed to keep Hermione and others at bay without them beginning to ask questions, or – worse – to think her deranged? Quinn's confidence and grip on her wand quiver in unison. Quinn knows that she is a fool indeed if she honestly thinks that she can keep everyone at an arm's length for the rest of her life. It really is only a matter of time before her already loose-lipped resolve crumples under the weight of this newfound albatross. It is with great encumbrance that she closes her eyes just.

And what of that jackass Malfoy? of the finality of it all—her powers as a novice Seer? Tight-lipped, she draws in breath. How does one concentrate on the present when the future lingers, quite literally, in the palms of their hands? She has never once asked for this. Quinn's hand melds perfectly around the shape of her wand as this thought swells in her head. She ransacks her mind for the memory that she thinks will help her cast the Patronus Charm but instead finds only the gloom of her previously received prophecies.

 _'Dead,'_  she hears the voice from her vision scream, shrill and winded, in her mind.  _'Both - dead!'_

In the seconds following, dread becomes her, and she lowers her wand once more in acknowledgment to her subsequent failure.


	11. A Trial by Fire

Dawn slices through her slumber, vulgar and condescending. With regret, Quinn rouses with her routine frown, the only physical display of her damnation for the disobliging sun. It has been just two days shy of a fortnight since the enlightening of her abilities, and for this exact period, as well, Quinn has awoken at more or less the same time with the precise etching of a scowl on her face break of day. On this note, her dreams have never been her allies. As it happens, she has almost dismissed their dismal gloom, grown accustomed to their pulsating pessimistic displays. In spite of this, the recent additions of the ominous deaths of those around her predicted by none other than Quinn herself have put a substantial damper on any such minor accomplishments.

Ignoring the pang of despondency that radiates through her head, Quinn frees herself from the tangled clutch of her sheets. With her clammy legs hanging ineffectually off the side of her four-poster, she gazes sightlessly toward her bedside table. For nearly two weeks, she has successfully evaded most of the advances of others. She has shied away from Luna's reassuring embraces, from June's timid prodding, and from Hermione's corrective hand. Emmeline has done her part herself by rendering her presence superfluous but for one or two visits. That said, the others have recently risen to their duties of purely looking at Quinn weirdly but have otherwise let Quinn be. It is a relief if not a lonely one. The price that she pays is that of further isolation, and as Quinn's eyes trail ruefully past the first drawer of her nightstand, she considers additionally the penalty for her loneliness. Inside of it, she knows, lay steadily emptying bottles of her medication. She had been a fool – a fool for thinking that there would be a manner in which she could refill her prescriptions in this world of oddities. Yet she remains a fool with a foolhardy frame of mind – a more reckless fool had there never been.

It is with a scathing albeit virtually noiseless sniff that Quinn turns her head away from the sight. Making an effort to tread quietly, she steals away to the bathroom in her nightgown. For the time being, she wishes to avoid waking her roommates. She needs a moment to herself, a chance to think. Thus, closing the door soundlessly behind her, she presses her back against the wall and sinks down to the floor on her backside. Quinn exhales and draws her knees up to her chin where she then conceals her face with her arms. How is she to make this work? It all seems too much for one person. The weight of her secrecy (not unlike the initial burden of silence of her teenage pregnancy) already afflicts her. Her anxiety has been rising higher and higher by the day, lapping dangerously at her waist as it intends to inevitably swallow her whole as it has so many times prior.

Draco Malfoy and his cronies are not helping, either. Since Quinn's rejection of his letter to meet with him, he has been faithful in his continued attempts to lure her into another occasion. Needless to say, Quinn is now rather familiar with the faces of Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini, Gregory Goyle, and Vincent Crabbe (though the latter two tend to travel always as a pair). For twelve days they have courted her, threatened her even, but Quinn has declined with malice each of their attempts. 'Draco demands your audience,' they would say. To which Quinn would retort with a hasty, 'What's so important that the great Draco himself can't deliver his own message?' More often than not, the crony on duty had no lucid response. This always left Quinn with the task of cleanly walking away. Through all her tactics of evasion, of course, her resistance has yet to all-together stop Malfoy and his team of glorified servants. Inevitably, this leads Quinn's patience to wear ever thin, particularly with the pressure of her negative thoughts pushing her down in tandem. She reflects with malevolence the trifling failures of Malfoy and his group. They realize not the cost of their target.

Absentmindedly, Quinn flips her hands over to stare blankly at her palms. From them she imagines ghouls and demons ghosting forward in capes of the most sinister black. She envisions the crusts of death painting them scarlet, rendering them indirect dealers of grim and dirty work. At this, she closes her fists and grimaces, the sensation of contamination and impurity tickling brazenly at her constricting throat. Subsequently, Quinn exhales in a billowing breath. It is with ingenuous stupidity that she wishes for nothing more than the opportunity to remain in this bathroom for the remainder of the day or perhaps the calendar year. She finds that what little excitement she once had for this place has waned in the apocalyptic gleam of her clairvoyance. Feeling paltry, she again sniffs as though inwardly fretting and whining would do her any sort of good at all. Her eyes lift, and Quinn permits her legs to slide forward slightly as she peers across the girls' lavatory.

Around this time, there comes a gentle rapping on the bathroom's door. Blinking as though this simple truth is something quite absurd, Quinn momentarily grounds herself to recognize that her place of 'hiding' had hardly been the most respectable choice. It is, after all, a community toilet.

"Quinn?"

Promptly, Quinn knows that this voice belongs to June.

"Quinn, it's just me... just June," there is a pause. "Are you all right?"

A familiar maternal flame kicks off in Quinn's stomach. Wiping her dry nose distractedly on the back of her wrist, she pushes herself up to her feet with an air of rejuvenated resilience. It takes her but a few steps before she is at the door, gently prizing it open to see June standing outside of it, furrowed of brow and lined of forehead. The glimmer of a smile coasts inconspicuously across Quinn's lips.

"Yes," Quinn says at last. "I'm fine, just had to use the restroom."

It is a feeble excuse, and Quinn can see this flash across June's face. In any case, the toilet had never flushed, and the water had never run. June is a smart girl, and still she says nothing. Loyal to a fault (or simply a girl after Quinn's own heart, perhaps), June only nods. Not missing a beat, Quinn strides carefully past the younger witch, a frail smile on her face.

"How about we get dressed and go grab an early breakfast?" prompts Quinn, an unidentifiable stitch of pain lodging itself in her chest as she watches June smile, too, in response.

Within minutes, the two Ravenclaw witches are ready to leave. They dress quickly in absolute silence, wary of the fact that both Emalia and Temperance remain snoring in their beds. It is a Saturday morning, at any rate, and as they stride past the common room, it is clear just how many others are taking advantage of the young weekend hour. Quinn observes to herself that June and she will be lucky if breakfast is even ready at all. All the same, Quinn is keen to simply enjoy the youthful radiance of June's quiet company as they traipse the many staircases. Food or no food, it is a welcome break to the bleak riots of Quinn's mind.

"Are you heading off to Hogsmeade today, Quinn?" June asks mildly, her voice its characteristic and meager squeak. It takes Quinn a moment before the question even settles. Then, she blinks. Hogsmeade - she has forgotten all about the visit up until this very moment. Quinn remembers how she had only noticed the permission slip after she had first arrived at Hogwarts. Judy had never seen the piece of paper to even consider signing it.

"No," replies Quinn, shrugging. "I didn't want to, anyway. What about you?"

Out of the corners of Quinn's eyes, the blonde notices June's cheeks flush with color.

"First Years aren't allowed," she murmurs. "Only Third Years and above."

"That's stupid," Quinn's words are mechanic, hardly observant. June's face turns even redder, and she looks away, bashful and perhaps a bit embarrassed. "No, no. Not you. I meant the rule."

June flips a wince into a diminutive grin.

"I know," she chuckles once and sheepishly. "I'm just not used to-" June pauses, looking to be considering her wording delicately. With a twinkle of mischief in Quinn's eyes, she thinks to have discerned what remains at the present unspoken.

"We blunt Americans?" prods Quinn with an impish grin. June issues an almost inaudible squeal of mortification. At this, Quinn chuckles. "Don't worry about it. It's something I, at least, embrace about myself. Sometimes you've just got to own up to your stereotype."

 _This is a half-truth_ , Quinn decides with the faintest smile. Quinn is purely soft-core compared to Santana Lopez's level of brutality. Even so, as June dares, too, to giggle softly after Quinn, the older witch is left with another peculiar grin upon her face. Being around June has this sort of effect on her. It brings her back to a simpler existence, an era predating complexity.

"How have your classes been?" Quinn queries casually as they continue their path to the Great Hall. "I haven't been able to ask as much."

"F-Fine," answers June stiffly, causing Quinn to quirk an eyebrow. "I mean, my marks are fine. My mum and dad will be proud."

"Sound a little more crestfallen, will you?" Quinn teases her younger roommate with the utmost affection. "You're a really smart girl, June. Own it."

June appears reluctant to reply, and Quinn knows this is because of the other girl's raging modesty. She is too shy to claim her own intelligence, and Quinn is determined that she will one day knock this self-deprecating quality out of June.

"It's... if you say so," June finishes hastily, notably changing the course of her original statement.

"'It's' what?" Quinn slows up her pace slightly.

"I didn't mean to say anything about them, Quinn. I-  _oh_!" she tries to laugh it off quietly, but it is too late. "I'm sorry. Please forget that I said anything at all."

This prompts Quinn to halt all-together. Call it Mother's Intuition or just commonsense, but it is clear to Quinn that June is not talking about grades anymore but people.

"About whom?" it is a stern demand, evidently unexpected by June whom stares back in shock. " _June._  What happened?"

"Really, nothing... I-I didn't mean t-to-"

Ice-cold alarm prickles each and every one of Quinn's nerves as she looks into June's wide, green eyes. Quinn isn't certain of the source of her apprehension, but she knows only that she will act – whatever it turns out to be.

"Tell me." there is no opportunity for a half-hearted answer or a dismissal. By the ferocity that simmers in the whites of Quinn's eyes, she intends to be given only the truth, whole and unaffected. June seems to shy away even now, wringing her hands as though she is disappointed with herself for some reason or another.

"I hadn't meant to tell you or... or anyone, but-" as Quinn glowers, June swallows. "It's just... th-the Slytherins," she lowers her voice so that it is barely heard. "That's all."

"Slytherins?" repeats Quinn, uncomprehending at first. Understanding quickly dawns on her soon after. "What? Are they bothering you?"

June, looking as ashamed as ever, averts her eyes and simply mumbles. It is clear at once that this response does not please Quinn.

"June, are they bothering you?" each word is punctuated as though to make certain that she can't be misunderstood. At last, the smaller girl nods, however vaguely. A sinking feeling collects at the lining of Quinn's stomach. "I'll kill them. I'll-!"

"No!" June says this at once, evidently ignorant of Quinn's hyperbole. "They're just bullies, Quinn. I didn't want to say anything at first, because I thought they'd stop."

For a moment, Quinn feels like screaming. Rage – sweltering and painful – grasps at her throat and chest. She wants to find these people, to cause them physical harm (and yet she knows that this, too, is irrational). Part of Quinn knows that this would be stooping to their level, and yet she can't help herself. As she notes the vague presence of sadness on June's freckled features, her anger only intensifies.

"What have they been doing?" inquires Quinn flatly as she tries to keep her temper under control.

"Just teasing," June's eyes are on her feet again. "teasing me because..." she hesitates, meeting Quinn's eye for another fraction of a second as though Quinn, too, will suddenly cast the cold iron of harsh judgment upon her. "be-because I'm Muggleborn."

 _Muggleborn._  The term sends more heat through Quinn's bloodstream. It is almost as though her mind feels conflicted and confused. She knows what the word means; although, it now gives her a momentous sense of unease and fury.

"They just take my things sometimes," mumbles June. "or push me down. They've never really hurt me, I guess. Like I said... I didn't... I didn't think it was that big of a deal."

"Until?" Quinn sounds vague and far-off now.

"Well, I just overheard some of them talking, is all," the shorter witch's eyebrows knit with worry as her gaze rises back up to meet Quinn's. "They were just talking amongst themselves, you know. Not at... a-at me," When Quinn's eyes tell June to continue, she does so. "They were older, maybe Sixth Years. They were just talking about... about," her voice lowers again. "-about Y-You-Know-Wh-who and... and how Muggleborns would be the first to go once... once Y...You-Know-Who t-took power."

Quinn's mouth is poised to say something, seemingly prepared to speak, and yet nothing comes. She stands there, lips ajar, staring at June in both surprise and bewilderment.

"He won't, though, right?" June presses the issue further after several seconds have ticked by. "You-Know-Who won't gain control... right, Quinn?"

With her tongue feeling cemented to the roof of her mouth, Quinn hesitates, feeling abruptly anxious. How is Quinn to know such a thing? Then her mind shifts to her hands, to thoughts of her abilities. Could Quinn somehow dabble in the Beyond, as Trelawney calls it, to see such possibilities? At this thought, the hairs on the back of her neck and arms bristle and stand on end, and she has to scatter the images that collect in the pool of her Mind's Eye.

"No," says Quinn decisively. "He can't. Ah, I- he... won't."

They say nothing else on the subject of You-Know-Who as they enter the Great Hall for breakfast. In any event, June had appeared satisfied with Quinn's fibbed certainty. This may have been in ordinance with the fact that Quinn had also promised to handle June's cheeky Slytherin 'friends,' as well. Quinn is sure that these are the prime reasons by June's sudden upward spike in mood, and she - Quinn - is willing to accept this.

As they slide onto the benches and look in anticipation at the food sitting temptingly before them, Quinn can't help but hang tight to their previous and shared apprehension about Muggleborns and Voldemort's regime. In all honesty, Quinn feels as though she has little knowledge about the esteemed Dark Lord. It is either that or she (and this has not gone unexpected) has difficulties determining her memories from those given to her. Had the previous owner of these memories – this knowledge that rests now inside of her – known a lot or much of Lord Voldemort? She fears she will never know.

As Quinn begins to deposit food onto her plate, she allows her mind to wander somewhat: to blank faces, to Hermione, to hooded figures, to Emmeline, to chocolate frogs, and to Lord Voldemort.

Something slight yet solid collides with middle of Quinn's back in this moment. Grabbed from her reverie, the blonde's posture stiffens as she looks left then right. Next to her, June seems unaware and quite happily engrossed in both her breakfast and Potions textbook. Quinn adopts a cantankerous expression as she peers through the moving crowds of stragglers on their way to Hogsmeade. None of them look to be the culprit, as they all appear busy in their own rights.

Another piece of something feels to slap against Quinn's left shoulder blade this time, and the Ravenclaw witch verbally scowls as she spins about to discover the wrongdoer. As her eyes trace the floor behind her, she sees at once that someone is tossing grapes at her -  _food!_ She feels both repulsed and thoroughly incensed. Her eyes comb through those sitting at the Hufflepuff and Slytherin tables. It takes her nearly a minute of scanning before she has made it to the Slytherin table and to a blond-haired boy with his right arm lifted, a red grape poised between his abject fingers. She could have smote Draco Malfoy where he sat.

"I'll be back, June," hisses Quinn as she stands. "I have someone I need to talk to."

Within milliseconds, Quinn is on her feet and starting toward the Slytherin table. Much to her evident surprise, however, Draco, too, has now risen and seems to be meeting her halfway with a look of smug expectancy on his face. With Quinn's fierce power-walking, it is just a few seconds before they meet just shy of the Great Hall's entrance.

"Do you  _want_  me to rearrange your face with my fist, Malfoy?" Quinn snaps, heat creeping up the base of her neck as she seethes at him. "What the hell is your problem?"

Apparently unperturbed, the Slytherin boy merely shrugs, his hands in his pockets. Quinn finds herself openly fuming now, entirely unhinged by his lack of acknowledgement to her plight. Though, it is with a faint degree of intrigue that she takes notice of the purple bags beneath his eyes. They could have been the identical twins of her own.

"You do not ignore a Malfoy, Fabray," he replies tersely. "I've been demanding that you meet with me for-"

"-weeks, I  _noticed_. Did Daddy teach you all there is to know about stalking?" quips Quinn. "What do you want?" Impatience, tight as a noose, snags at Quinn's throat. In Quinn's mind, it would be in Draco's interest to spit it all out and soon.

"We shan't talk here," scowls Draco. "Now that I've your attention, you'll come with me."

"Oh,  _will I_?" Quinn is positively enraged now. "and what makes you think I'll comply?" the witch actually has to bite her tongue to keep from tacking on a 'you pompous bastard' to the end of her furious reply.

"Because what I have to say is something that you will find of great value to you," at this point, Draco shrugs again and blinks slowly. Quinn notes with a flavor of touchiness that he seems to be laying the nonchalance card on a bit too thickly.

"You'll have to do better than that if you expect me to 'so oblige' you," her voice is packed with gravel as she glares at him. "What is so interesting that you trail me for  _weeks_ , bombarding me with summoning after summoning? If it was so damned important, why not come and get me yourself?"

"Believe it or not, Fabray," Draco retorts, casually readjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. "I've other, far more important, tasks to attend than to spend all of my precious time tailing the likes of you. If you haven't noticed, that is what expendables are for." he gestures mildly toward the Slytherin table where Quinn assumes Pansy, Crabbe, Goyle, and Blaise would be, if they had not been in Hogsmeade today.

Quinn continues to stare at him rebelliously, wanting nothing else but to knee him between the legs, stomp his face into a curb, and then leave him there to cry. Yet even Quinn can't deny the lure of mystery that his words bring. What does he intend to tell her? Against her better interest, she presumes it of at least moderate importance. Why else would he waste his time with her? Quinn doesn't know him from Adam, after all. What use is she to him?  _Nothing_. Conflicted and aggravated, Quinn frowns deeply at him, lines forming at either side of her lips and upon her forehead.

"Make it quick," she snaps back, feeling overcome and thus twice as annoyed. Malfoy's succeeding look of portentous triumphant only adds fuel to the blaze of Quinn's explosive ire. Still, she says nothing as he leads her out of the Great Hall and down an eerily abandoned hallway. They walk wordlessly for several minutes, in fact, as they seem to climb step after wretched step with Draco only even acknowledging Quinn again once they arrive an emptier still passageway. The pair stop short in front of an utterly blank wall where Quinn grimaces coldly at him.

"Now, what is it?" she barks the words with the resemblance of a person tap-dancing on her final nerve.

Exhaling frankly, Draco steps toward the barren wall and stares at the bricks as though examining them for veiled cracks. He looks deep in thought and uncaring to Quinn's blooming anger. Quinn wonders fleetingly if he remembers why he has brought her here at all.

"What do you know of the Dark Lord?" he says all at once, taking Quinn by complete surprise. Unable to stop herself, she gapes at him, only to erase the look a half-second later. Is this what Draco has brought her all the way up seven or more flights of stairs to discuss – Wizarding politics? She could have killed the bastard.

"I know that the two of you share the anterior of a right asshole," snarls Quinn, her knuckles turning white as she imagines multiple knives piercing Draco's back. "Honestly, is this what you brought me up here for? to talk domestic affairs? I ought-"

" _No_ , you stupid girl!" Draco rolls his eyes as he rounds on her unexpectedly. "and you'll watch your tongue when talking about the Dark Lord if you know what's good for you," he seems stark-raving mad for a split second as though he hasn't slept properly in months. Nonetheless, this soon melts away, and he appears a politician in the finest robes of campaign black. Something about this urges Quinn to silence. "Now, answer the question."

Resisting the impulse to take another swipe at the insolent wizard, Quinn straightens up and narrows her eyes with calculation.

"That he's a really powerful wizard who wants to take over your Ministry for Magic, or whatever it is," Quinn flutters her right hand pointlessly in the air for a moment. "—and that people are scared of him for some reason; I don't know. What is it that you want to hear?"

Draco snorts contemptuously at her and shakes his head. For a heartbeat, he appears as though he wishes to say something nasty, to insult Quinn further, but nothing comes.

"He will soon be in control of all of Wizarding Britain," Malfoy bites back plainly, his tone almost hollow. "and you'll do well to pick your side wisely."

Quinn's eyes narrow smaller still. It is as though she nearly misunderstands. Is he genuinely warning her? or is he possibly recruiting her? A feeling of great trepidation begins to culminate within her.

"And just what is  _that_  supposed to mean?" Quinn somehow manages to keep her voice steady, regardless of how desperately it intends to shake. She will not show weakness in front of anyone but especially not when in the presence of Draco Malfoy.

"It means that you will either choose to live or choose to die," it is Draco's voice that is trembling now, however not out of fear or sadness. It is something deeper, something that Quinn can't place. His eyes look feral and unfettered, accentuated with pulsing red and bloody veins where only white should be. Quinn holds her breath, simply staring at him, taking in his almost rabid appearance. Her left inner forearm itches.

It occurs to Quinn suddenly that Draco may know something that she doesn't want him to, that perhaps he has somehow discovered the true extent of her abilities. She tries to stave off any sort of fear from her face, to appear strong and defiant, but this thought terrifies her. Hermione had warned her, all those weeks ago, about staying away from Draco Malfoy, and now Quinn feels as though she understands why. Her eyes, without conscious thought, drift down to the silver-blond wizard's covered left forearm. She doesn't know why or how, but she comprehends something in the bottomless throngs of her slumbering unconscious. As though a door has been opened, she receives the form of Draco through eyes of slits. She sees someone new and different, more than just an obnoxious boy or troubled youth. Yet, against her will, this causes Quinn's own underside of her left arm to itch and tingle. She can't stop herself from scratching at the sweater-covered skin as Draco watches her all the while.

"You don't scare me," Quinn tells him mutinously, a fierce warning of her own in her tone of voice.

Draco is edging toward her now, an unreadable shadow draped across his face as he moves to stand adjacent to Quinn so that Quinn's shoulder brushes past his right arm. The touch alone is enough to cause Quinn to shift immediately away, fearful that she would be forced into another vision. This, however, is a useless endeavor, for – regardless of touch – a vision never comes.

"You will regret ever saying that when all is said and done, Quinn Fabray."

...and he is gone – just like that. Only Quinn doesn't hear him leave. Her eyes, squinted and unsteady, quake in their sockets. Quinn's anxiety has skyrocketed, and her mouth is now cotton-dry. In her mind, she recalls her most-often repeated night terror, the battlefield with lights of red and green. She sees herself felled, coated in grime and carrion, faceless and yet somehow screaming. Sputtering to catch her troubled breath abruptly, Quinn clutches at her chest as a violent heart palpitation rocks through her body. She needs to get to her nightstand, to get to her medicine drawer. She needs her anxiety medicine, her betablocker –  _her propranolol_.

Yet her legs are moving, and they are taking her elsewhere. Quinn is flying down the stairs away from Ravenclaw Tower and away from her medicine drawer. Something inside of Quinn, more like a light (more specifically, a poignant lighthouse) than a voice, is on high alert and speaking to her in ancient tongues.

' _DOWN THE STAIRS AND TO THE HALL,'_  it says.  _'DOWN THE STAIRS AND TO THE HALL.'_

Even with these vague yet somehow comprehensible directions, she must have wandered ten minutes or more before she at least arrives at the entrance hall. Quinn has barely halted when McGonagall rushes past her, breathing hard. Only a small apology is heard before the older witch continues on toward the stone steps leading outside with frenetic strides. The knowing light between Quinn's temples gives a tremor, and then Quinn is following the Transfiguration professor. The chain of events that follows leaves Quinn with a look of dumbfounded horror on her face.

Following just a few steps behind Minerva McGonagall, Quinn finds herself heading toward Hermione, Harry, Ron, and a girl that Quinn does not know. Quinn scarcely notices the sleet needling sadistically against her cheeks as she stares, gaping slightly, at Hermione and the other three. As of yet, McGonagall has not noticed that Quinn has trailed her. She is speaking quickly to the small group, something about having seen something happen to a Katie Bell or other.

"Quinn!" comes a small gasp. Without looking up, Quinn knows that it is Hermione who has seen her first. Four other heads crane to look at the sleet-pelted form of Quinn Fabray thereafter. Unable to bare the small distance any longer, Quinn walks quickly to the others.

"What's happened?" asks the blonde needlessly.

"There is no time!" McGonagall huffs sternly, herding all of them back toward the entrance. "To my office, all of you."

Though Quinn is certain that this doesn't include herself, she follows, following in step awkwardly beside Hermione.

"What are you doing here?" Hermione insists of Quinn, her voice quivering. Quinn knows instantly that something sinister has occurred. Though, the problem remains how to properly convey her Intuition's instructions for Quinn to flee toward the entrance to be present for this moment.

"I just... knew that I needed to here," shrugs Quinn, feeling as lame as she knows that she sounds. "I knew something had happened."

Right off the bat, it is clear that Hermione finds this explanation flaky at best, but Hermione has no time to refute her. McGonagall, on the other hand, casts a nervous look back at Quinn as they traipse up the stairs toward her office. If Quinn had not been included in the invitation to the Deputy Headmistress' office before, then the American witch has a feeling that she is now. Further explanation for her awareness of this Katie Bell's accident (whatever it had been) would almost certainly be necessary. Therefore, the five students and Professor McGonagall make quick work of the last few steps before shuffling anxiously into the former's office.

As soon as the door shuts, McGonagall rounds on all of them, demanding to know the details of whatever had happened. Keeping close to Hermione (the only person in the room that Quinn even felt an inkling of comfort around), Quinn listens to the nameless girl's recount. As the story climaxes, that profound stone of dread that Quinn has come to know quite well flips in Quinn's stomach. Now overcome with emotion from the situation, the strange girl addressed as Leanne is dismissed.

Quinn glances briefly out of the corners of her eyes to look at Hermione. Hermione's face is utterly white save for the remaining flecks of red from the brutal cold that they have recently escaped. She looks disturbed. Quickly, Quinn averts her gaze again, only vaguely listening as Harry and McGonagall begin an exchange about what had happened to Katie Bell. Quinn's mind is alive and racing with personified images of panic and, oddly, necessity. Her pulse is positively galloping. It is only a name and a name alone that draws Quinn's awareness back to the conversation.

"I think Draco Malfoy gave Katie that necklace, Professor."

It is Harry speaking. Quinn knows this straight away. Yet it is the mention of Draco Malfoy that draws her to this accusation's attention. Next to her, Hermione seems to have shifted closer to Quinn. Naturally, the latter adds another degree of distance between them before she angles her neck to look at Harry. McGonagall is asking for proof for Harry's placement of blame, and Harry is insisting that he doesn't have any – not exactly, anyway. Quinn's mind flashes to the empty seventh floor (why the precise number comes to her now, the witch can't say) corridor where Draco had taken Quinn just twenty or so minutes ago to converse. Once more, she barely catches the details of Draco apparently having bought something from some odd shop called Borgin and Burkes.

Like wildfire catching dry wood, this sparks a borderline argument/discussion amongst Ron, Harry, Hermione, and McGonagall. Quinn is left to stand mute and pensive as she takes in the information that they share. From the sounds of it, Harry, too, suspects Malfoy of his darker loyalties. Perhaps this is common knowledge? Quinn blinks without seeing as she observes Hermione, now on a long tangent about how she had asked Borgin about the necklace in question. Hermione is quickly interrupted, first by either Ron or Harry (Quinn couldn't be arsed to care which) and then at last by McGonagall. As though on cue, the professor more or less debunks Harry's wild theories one by one, ending with the most prominent (in Quinn's mind) of all:

"Mr. Malfoy was not in Hogsmeade today."

A rush of adrenaline surges through Quinn's veins as Harry asks McGonagall how she knows. Before the older witch can answer, however, Quinn interjects.

"I was with him," says Quinn swiftly, garnering four pairs of information-hungry eyes upon her immediately. Demanding that her cheeks not turn scarlet, she straightens her spine and clears her throat. "He wanted a word with me about twenty minutes ago."

"What?" this is echoed thrice, once by each student present. McGonagall, basking in an abnormal expression, blinks heavily before adding.

"What is more, he was completing a detention with me," concludes the woman wryly. "He has failed to turn in his Transfiguration homework twice in a row."

McGonagall is finishing her point with obligatory 'thanks' for Harry's information before she is shoving each of them out of her office with an air of finality. It isn't long before she is gone, leaving Quinn alone with the three friends. The subsequent discomfiture that settles is quick and palpable. It is as though Quinn has been expecting this since the start.

"What did I tell you about Draco Malfoy?" Hermione says in exasperation to Quinn as soon as McGonagall is out of earshot. Quinn's skin tingles with vexation.

"He's been pestering me for weeks!" she snaps back. "I wanted him off my back, so I let him speak his piece."

"What 'piece'?" Harry is the source of the question now, and Quinn's eyes turn to him curiously. It is one of the, if not the very, first times that they have spoken directly to one another.

"He's got an awful big head," Quinn grumbles. "something about how I would 'do well to choose sides wisely.'"

A vile silence follows her seemingly casual words. Natural self-consciousness drapes its rude fingers around Quinn, and she retreats into herself again at the broad stares of all three of them.

"I need to speak to Quinn alone for a moment," Hermione pipes again, her voice taut. Though Harry looks like he wants to protest, Ron and he move back. They walk a little way down the hall to give the two girls a bit of privacy.

"What's the matter now?" sighs Quinn indignantly.

"You will stay away from Draco Malfoy," the dark-haired witch is pressing nearer to Quinn, her eyebrows knitted with grave anger.

Quinn's eyes narrow.

"Excuse me, but last I checked I was in charge of whom I speak to."

"And _I_  am in charge of steering you in the right direction!" asserts Hermione with a flare of an awful temper.

"And a teenage boy with a bad dye-job is the wrong direction?" Quinn laughs bitterly, thinking ephemerally that Hermione is absolutely insane.

"Precisely!"

When Quinn sneers again, Hermione tries to grasp for her charge's wrists for emphasis. Quinn is leaping back and away from the other girl's touch before Hermione even has a chance to graze Quinn's flesh.

"Don't touch me!" snarls Quinn, red-hot heat rushing to her cheeks. It is an instinctive reaction now, to flinch from touch, particularly from Hermione's.

"You - are - so -  _petty_!" Hermione reels, tossing her hands up in the air with tangible rage. Her face, too, is stained cherry red. "All right, fine!  _Fine_! If you so fancy winding up Lord Voldemort's pawn, please do continue down the path you are heading!"

A glow of newborn affliction sparks inside of Quinn's stomach as she stands there, glowering, at Hermione. She doesn't even notice the turned heads of Ron and Harry, gawking at either of them from the end of the hallway.

"Maybe I will!" bellows Quinn stubbornly. "Maybe then I won't be handled like breakable goods or some badly-kept secret!"

Hermione scoffs loudly, gazing at Quinn in disbelief.

"You are unreal," Hermione says, her voice lower than before. Then, after a moment's quiet: "Okay. All right, then – fine. Would you prefer to be entirely in charge of yourself? Be - my - guest." the final sentence is pronounced and dripping with sarcasm. Hermione sounds as though she intends to put a stopper to their working together, and Quinn puts an expression suggesting that they are better for it.

"I imagine I'll get a lot more accomplished that way!" Quinn jeers venomously at her. "You won't even let me use more than First Years' jinxes! A lot of good that'll do me if I'm expected to fight for your side."

"Unbelievable," Hermione essentially mouths the word as she half-turns from Quinn, looking almost ill.

"Well, believe it," maintains Quinn childishly as she crosses her arms and steps back from Hermione.

Something inside of Quinn, however, sounds to be crumbling. As Quinn makes this lurch backward, she imagines herself falling and never ceasing – locked in an endless chasm of descent. Though presently untraceable, something feels wrong. Like a puzzle piece incorrectly thrust into grooves of an incorrect partner, this whole situation gives off the putrid smoke of a misfire. Now unfathomably juvenile and psychologically hurting, Quinn spins on her heels at this concept and physically frees herself from the chains of this moment. She leaves Hermione standing there alone in the middle of the corridor, white-faced and incredulous.

It is like maneuvering through a great muck, indeed, but Quinn somehow manages to not only turn her back on Hermione but on the blazing glare of the lighthouse that enkindles riotously in her laboring Mind's Eye.


	12. The Mirror of Herself

It is a tiring existence - this flitting back and forth between the veils of her mind. Oftentimes and with much dismay, Quinn finds that she has grown accustomed to discovering herself lapsing perilously into the pools of the demented unconscious during various instances of her waking life. These visions arrive unprovoked. It is as though part of her is acting as an alarm, a sadistic reminder. As the end of October peaks mischievously above the horizon, her mind prods at her as though to say,  _'Wake up! Wake up—and rise to the occasion!'_  with the occasion being her sacked training sessions with Trelawney, Emmeline, and Hermione. For days she has steered very clear of them all, as Quinn reckons that she simply cannot face them.

With Trelawney comes fear of the unknown. What would Quinn be exposed to next? The ideas, both great and terrible, seem endless. Would Quinn discover that she could manipulate the future to become a sick and twisted god, destined to become drunk off her own power? Would she be doomed to turn against her friends, her family, for the sake of befitting her own foresight? or would she even unearth herself to be the very Reaper in the flesh? It is these possibilities and then some that haunt her ceaselessly, that drive her away from that batty old woman's haunting room.

It follows that with Emmeline comes the ambiguity of suspended judgment. Quinn has not seen Emmeline since she, Quinn, had originally confided in her mentor shortly after Professor Trelawney's discovery of Quinn's manner of psychic technique. Shortly thereafter, Emmeline had chosen this as the opportune moment to make herself scarce. While at first this had seemed a blessing to Quinn, now it strikes her as frightening as it does infuriating. Where is her mentor when she needs her most? In Quinn's mind, Emmeline should be here with her, guiding her through these trying tries. Yet, all the while, Quinn dreads her return if not just as much—for the strong hand of Emmeline's judgment is sure to accompany the older witch's fated return.

Yet it all comes full circle with Hermione. Through Hermione comes somewhat of a paradox. Quinn feels shame, and yet she is not apt to admit this. The guilt had settled no less than six days ago, shortly following their impetuous spat relating to Quinn's recklessness and (more indirectly) allegiance. Quinn cannot even so much as look at Hermione without experiencing the unpleasant pang of culpability. ' _YOU SPEAK WITH THE ARTICULATION OF A CHILD,'_  Teacher had told her. Teacher, though it irritates Quinn to think so, had been right. Even so, such a deduction is more easily met within the safety of Quinn's mind. It is portraying it to another party that provides difficulty. For that reason, when passing Hermione in the halls, Quinn pretends that the other witch does not exist. Quinn ignorantly presumes that this is, in the end, the only acceptable alternative.

 _It's cowardice_ , her inner critic berates her, causing Quinn to visibly scowl as she sweeps her navy sweater around her shoulders one late afternoon.

 _Yeah_ , Quinn argues fruitlessly back,  _well, you try to defend yourself to Hermione the Faultless. Tell me how that goes for you._ Feeling unreasonably smug for having just supposedly triumphed in an argument with herself, Quinn sets out toward the library where she is due to meet June to help the younger girl study.

June is the only consistency that Quinn is able to manage these days. As her pill count dwindles, Quinn seems to cling tighter to the idea of keeping herself nearer to June. It is both a conscious and subconscious desire to keep herself steady as she teeters toward the brink. Quinn lives in the mindset that so long as the youthful June is near her, the inescapable edge is not a sixty-foot drop but instead a six-inch stride. This is, admittedly, a feeble attempt at best on Quinn's part as far as self-care is concerned.

As it is, the walk to the library is wholeheartedly dismissible. Quinn permits her mind to wander, to answer the calls of her most mundane daydreams. Because of this, it is not long at all before she is staring down the library doors and, soon after, the bowed head of June. Although it takes the gentle clang of the door shutting behind Quinn for June to notice the initial's arrival, they share a smile all the same. Disregarding the librarian that, quite honestly, Quinn cares little for, the blond witch makes a beeline for her roommate. Then, in compulsory silence, Quinn takes her seat to the ginger-haired First Year's right.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long," murmurs Quinn, careful to keep her voice at a whisper.

June shakes her head, causing her corkscrew curls to bounce liberally.

"What are we working on today?" Quinn is rummaging through her Ravenclaw shoulder bag for a quill and some parchment. "Potions? Or did you say History of Magic?"

"Potions," June groans softly, looking frustrated.

Quinn grins.

"Don't feel bad. I hear Snape's a pain in the a- ah... butt for everyone," she wets her lips in order to recover quickly from her verbal stumble. This isn't the first time Quinn has had trouble with her language around the eleven-year-old.

"Sometimes I feel like he's just being plain unfair," sighs June.

Feeling a little playful, Quinn gently bumps her shoulder into June's.

"Chin up, kid," chides Quinn affectionately. "You're smart, and you know the material. You're just feeling overwhelmed, I think."

June, appearing thoroughly unconvinced, gropes forcefully at her temples. They continue to keep their voices low so as to appease the vigilant librarian.

"Oh,  _you_ ," Quinn rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "Okay, well - at any rate, let's crack open some books and take a look at this stuff, all right?"

With a begrudging noise of apparent agreement, June opens her Potions textbook as Quinn peers solicitously over the young witch's shoulder. From what Quinn can glance, the majority of the material could have been a foreign language. It's as though Quinn has glimpsed the surface of the work, dabbled in it even, and yet she can't make hide or hair of the finer workings. For instance, Quinn cringes at the thought of what good armadillo bile would do anyone. Almost everything about this world of magic still perplexes Quinn to varying degrees. All the while, it nonetheless manages to remain distantly familiar. As she wanders the halls, often late into the night (when her nightmares are at their worst), she finds that it nearly feels as though she has been here before. The portraits, though more often fast asleep, seem to gleam at her in recognition.

 _What is it that you're keeping from me?_  Quinn's eyes adopt a somewhat glazed look as she allows June a moment to scribble down a few notes. Her far-off look travels over clumps and piles of textbooks as she considers that this is a thought that plagues her daily. Just who is it that inhabits her mind? or, she supposes, the appropriate term is 'what.' Knowledge and information are not necessarily exclusive or even personal. But this troubles Quinn. More and more, she experiences these 'flashes,' so to speak - these enlightening glimpses of the previous owner's past. The men and women in black come to mind. Who are they? Are they even of any purpose at all? This seems unknowable.

Beside Quinn, June stirs restlessly.

"What's up?" Quinn wills the words from her bone-dry tongue.

June exhales diffidently.

"Just feeling a bit..."

"Burnt out?" suggests Quinn, a droll smile blooming on her lips. "Yeah, I figured. You study  _way_  too much, June-" as June looks about to protest, Quinn cuts in. "You're eleven, and this is your first year at a school for magic. Why don't you let loose a little?"

"But Mum says that school is for learning and studying," June recites quietly, eyes on her notes.

"Well,  _yeah_ ," Quinn laughs. "She's your mom. That's what moms are supposed to say. But," and for emphasis, Quinn superficially scopes the library. "I don't see your mom anywhere around here. It's just you and me and Madame Pince."

"Yes, but-"

"But nothing!" interjects the older witch. Quinn flips June's Potions textbook shut. "Now, what do you want to do instead?"

June looks completely aghast.

" _But Quinn_  - I have to study! I have a -"

"Whatever you have can wait," insists Quinn with a smirk. "Today... you are  _just_  a kid!"

" _Shhhhhhhhhhh_ -ush!"

Madame Pince is scowling at both of them now with her hands propped dangerously upon her pointed hips. Quinn sucks her breath in humorously. Then, she lowers her voice again.

"Now, as I was saying... it is a positively be-a _uuu_ tiful Wednesday," Quinn croons, leaning closer to June. "Forget about school for a second. If you weren't at Hogwarts... if you were free to do  _whatever_ , what would you do?"

"Read probab-"

Quinn waves this answer away quickly.

"Besides reading," snickers the blonde. "Come on, June. I mean outside. What would you do  _outside_?"

For a moment, June looks to truly consider this question.

"Well," now rosy of cheek, the young Ravenclaw bows her head. "I- ... uhm. I always thought it'd be fun to watch you and Hermione practice, maybe even... try a few things with you two."

Salt, poignant and rough, settles firmly in the wound for Quinn. It takes the Seer a moment before she can even think to counter this, for guilt becomes her.  _Hermione._  For a few minutes, it had seemed as though Quinn had forgotten about the girl. But of course not. Karma had never allowed it to be that easy for her before. After Quinn's puerile display, weeks if not months of shame is sure to follow closely behind her - ready to pounce at any given moment. Moreover, it occurs to Quinn that Hermione probably wants nothing more to do with her.

"June, I-"

"-think that is a fine idea," finishes a definitive voice, drawing warmth to the surface of Quinn's flesh. Standing just shy of their table is none other than Hermione herself, cradling a single, large book in her left arm.

When the  _hell_  had she even gotten there? It takes all of Quinn's wits to keep from gawking.

"Hermione," Quinn says her name formally, as though greeting a long-lost and long-forgotten acquaintance.

"Quinn," mimics Hermione befittingly.

There is a peculiar and noticeable glint in Hermione's dark brown eyes, one that Quinn receives with an edge of suspicion at first. She seems bemused yet intrigued, almost... enchanted. Then Hermione's eyes fall on little June, and Quinn knows at once that her intuition is, unfortunately, unmistaken.

Hermione had seen Quinn (more specifically, Quinn's behavior) with June.

Quinn swallows and averts her eyes strategically to the former. As of Hermione's unanticipated arrival, June has taken to staring widely up at the witch, mouth agape. June has expressed her admiration for the Gryffindor Prefect on many an occasion. This must be like meeting a celebrity for the young girl. Quinn, on the other hand, is at a loss for words. Her mind is a hurricane of thoughts and feelings, anger and guilt.

 _Who does she think she is! How dare she think that this will change anything. I won't forgive her for trying to tell me how... for trying to tell me how to- ...How to, what? to stay out of harm's way? to stay alive? Yes, how dare_ _she..._ care _._

Keeping her eyes low, Quinn inhales slowly.

"We were just studying," she explains dully, her voice uncharacteristically quiet.

"It sounds to me," Hermione observes tolerantly. "like you two were just about to get some fresh air."

Beside Quinn, June shifts in her seat, seemingly looking from Quinn to Hermione and back again expectantly. The ball is in Quinn's court, and she knows it. Whatever Quinn replies with will be the final say. Her cheeks, though only slightly rosy, burn nonetheless.

"Yes," comes Quinn's strained reply. "June wanted to-"

"Miss Hermione, could you maybe show me what you teach Quinn?" pipes June, so abruptly straightforward that Madame Pince almost fumbles out of her desk chair from the sudden noise. Mortified, June clamps both her palms over her mouth before falling roughly to her bottom in her chair once more.

Quinn presses her own lips in a tight line, clearly amused. She wonders for a moment if Hermione will parrot Madame Pince's absurd military-esque behavior, but there is a hint of a smile on the brunette's face. She beams silently at June before taking in both Quinn and the little girl. Hermione mouths the word 'outside' prior to passing off her book to the nearest deposit box and starting toward the exit. Shortly after, June is up on her feet and bounding as painstakingly slow as she can manage after Hermione. Quinn, however, takes her time. Pushing in their chairs and readjusting her wand in her pocket again and again, she ponders over how she's supposed to handle this unprecedented situation. In all honesty, she has barely a plan at all by the time she has met the two witches at the entrance hall.

"What took you so long, Quinn?" June asks, genuinely concerned.

It is the first instance that Quinn ever recalls wishing that her roommate would not have spoken.

"Just... putting our table back the way it was," mutters Quinn, not meeting Hermione's eyes, in spite of the fact that she feels the brunette's gaze, hot and searing, upon her. June looks to accept this as her eyes flit eagerly up to Hermione.

"Where are going, Miss Hermione?"

"Just 'Hermione' is fine," the Gryffindor witch chuckles. "and to the training grounds, of course - ah, what did you say your name was?"

"June," she smiles. "June Summers."

"Well, June, it's a pleasure to meet you," Hermione persists. "how about you run up ahead and scope the place out; we will need to make sure it's open for use. Quinn and I will be right behind you."

With a look of sheer delight, June bobs her head and sets off toward the training grounds. Quinn tries to swallow again but finds that her throat is uncomfortably tight. Catching Quinn's eyes, Hermione looks to smile furtively before starting off after the exuberant June.

"Walk with me."

Quinn stares after Hermione, the latter's words barely registering as Quinn's legs seem to move forward of their own accord. The blonde is essentially speechless as she falls in step slightly behind Hermione.

"I'm angry with you," Quinn reminds her crassly. "or did you forget?"

Hermione emits a small sound of amusement before shrewdly shaking her head.

"I have not forgotten."

At this, Quinn prickles with unease. In front of them, June is swiveling her head to check out the field (which is, naturally, uninhabited). What is Hermione playing at? The corners of Quinn's lips twitch anxiously downward. They have since arrived at the training grounds, and Quinn is determined to keep her resolve strong while in the presence of June. She would not allow Hermione's peculiarity, however alarming, to get to her.

"It looks clear to me," exclaims June as she sweeps around to beam at them both.

Hermione nods pleasantly.

"Good," she decides. "Quinn?"

Still leery, Quinn narrows her eyes. She says nothing more and merely stands, noiselessly battling with the unnerving prickling sensation at the pit of her stomach. Hermione blinks slowly as she settles her fists in front of her waist.

"What shall we show June here first? perhaps a Patronus Charm -"

"Quinn!" June gapes at her, causing Quinn's cheeks to redden slightly. "You never told me that you could produce a Patronus Charm!"

 _If looks could kill._  How desperately Quinn wishes that she could glower openly at Hermione! What the hell does she think she's doing, anyway? Quinn has been purposefully avoiding her. Ergo, they haven't been meeting for their usual training sessions. Hermione seems to be under the impression that this can be remedied with a simple intrusion. Quinn's body stiffens as she takes in Hermione's appearance.

"Hermione showed me how it was done, yes," Quinn speaks carefully, her voice taut with unvoiced fury as her eyes held their ground against Hermione's.

"Can I see you cast it, Quinn?" pleads June, her green eyes rotund with excitement. " _Please_!"

Quinn breathes easily in an attempt to appear relaxed, even when - in actuality - she had never felt more nervous. Surreptitiously, she directs a dirty albeit brief glare toward Hermione. She would pay, Quinn assures herself with certainty, for this.

"I don't know," Quinn shrugs, her subsequent words acting like food caught in her airway. "Hermione's probably better at it."

The Ravenclaw witch reflects that she has never wanted to pummel someone in the stomach as much as she did Hermione right now. All of this is entirely purposeful! The faint gleam of humor in the other witch's eyes all but confirms it. Quinn grimaces, all the more put off by Hermione's too-polite smile.

Two can play at this game.

"Show her yours, Hermione," says Quinn with a lilt of pretension.

There comes a slight upward twitch of Hermione's left eyebrow at this. Perhaps she hadn't expected Quinn to fight back. If so - and Quinn smirks to herself at Hermione's expense - then she'd been a fool.

"Perhaps," Hermione wets her lips coolly. "we'll start off with something smaller. June," her notice turns to the more-than-eager, bright-eyed First Year. "what can  _you_  do?"

To have the focus suddenly thrust upon her causes June to start slightly. Pink-faced and sputtering, she looks up at Hermione as though stunned.

"W-Well, I me-mean - I-I... we're... learning the Hover Charm," June stutters. "and I'm a-all right at the... at the Knockback Jinx, too, I think."

"Brilliant," commends Hermione genuinely, walking around to stand at June's left. "Would you mind too terribly if I asked to see?"

Truly, June looks as though she could have fainted on the spot. Quinn muses that it can only be the stiffness of June's tie (perfectly pressed and ironed - rather unbelievably so) that keeps her even moderately upright.

"Ah, sh-  _sure_!"

Quinn crosses her arms loosely as she watches Hermione shift back somewhat to stand closer to Quinn. The latter frowns at this but somehow resists the impulse to move. As a substitute, the blonde offers her undivided (and quite unnecessary) attention to June.

"How about that small rock?" Hermione proposes astutely, indicating a palm-sized rock a meter or so shy of where they all stand.

June nods stiffly as she turns her gaze upon the stone with her brows furrowed. A sensation resembling pride settles comfortably within the swell of Quinn's abdomen as she sees June prepare herself, how the young witch bites her tongue and tightens her jaw in concentration. As June lifts her wand (a simple yet fervent instrument from the looks of it), Quinn spies a change in the normally meek student's behavior. She is certain of herself, absolutely positive of her hand and wand's positions. It is but an immaculate swish and flick of her wand and an utterance of  _'wingardium leviosa'_  later that the rock in question is hovering soundly a good two meters in the air. Near Quinn, Hermione clasps her hands together in assumed admiration or delight.

"Brilliant!" she says again, moving to clap June compellingly on the back. "Absolutely wonderful, June! You should be very proud."

For half a heartbeat, Quinn wonders if this is directed at June or Quinn. This question comes partly from Hermione's backward glance at Quinn whom still stands with her arms draped lazily across her chest. Immediately, Quinn wills a barely visible smile (for June, she rations) upon her features. At the very least, this looks to please the younger girl.

"Do you think you can levitate something a bit more -" it is Hermione speaking again, yet she seems - for a moment - caught on her wording. "- substantial?"

Looking to be a bit more self-assured, June blinks at this inquiry.

"What?" queries June. "As in... a bigger rock?"

Hermione flashes her a budding grin.

"I was thinking more along the lines of a person."

Quinn freezes, her fingers pinching at her own skin as she stares at the pair of them. Contrary to (perhaps) popular belief, Quinn Fabray is not an idiot. She can only fathom so many directions that this conversation is heading.

"No," she tells them at once, stepping forward. "No, absolutely not. No."

June looks taken aback, while Hermione appears the pinnacle of patience.

"Oh, come on, Quinn," Hermione asserts lightheartedly. "Where's your team spirit? I was under the impression that June meant quite a lot to you."

Quinn thinks that her own eyes ought to have popped out of her head.  _A cheat!_  that's what Hermione is.  _A dirty, filthy cheat._  If Quinn hadn't been so annoyed with her, she may have been impressed or even pleased.

Hermione Granger knows how to play hardball, but so does Quinn Fabray.

"Of course," Quinn permits both her arms and shoulders to fall nonchalantly. "Although, naturally, I'm sure you'll want to see how 'brilliant' June's Knockback Jinx is firsthand, as well. You know, after she's finished practicing on me."

This had been the trigger. From the look of shock on June's face to the expression of vigor on Hermione's, Quinn knows that she has accomplished whatever goal that Hermione had set for her for this particular situation. Quinn isn't sure how it is she knows this. For all she knows, it may have been the definite flicker of a challenge that had flashed through Hermione's dark eyes in that instant or perhaps the shadow of vitality that had wrung its spry fingers upon her lips. Either way, as they lock eyes just before Quinn is to take to her station as June's personal Charms test dummy, they exchange between them some sort of silent code. There is something to be said for this behavior later.

* * *

They would spend the next hour or so perfecting the already adept arts of June's Hover Charm, Knockback Jinx, and Stunning Spell. As one would possibly expect, the young student lacks the ability to be able to fully lift Quinn all her own. Yet, even so, this would only be deciphered only after June's first failed attempt lands Quinn short of breath and face-down in the grass. June had been embarrassed, practically asphyxiating herself with apologies, while Hermione had remained tight-lipped but recreationally concerned. In retrospect, Quinn assumes that the brunette had been trying not to laugh. Though, in Quinn's eyes, there is hardly anything at all funny about the grass stains down her pristine, white button-down shirt.

 _But that's Granger for you_ , something in her mind reflects. Some sort of unspoken competition had unfurled at the beginning of this spur-of-the-moment training session. Somehow, Quinn's anger had morphed into competitiveness. Instead of wanting to shove Hermione face-down in the grass along with her, Quinn had wanted to make an emulous display of herself. In essence, Quinn supposes, she had wanted to show-off, to come off as impressive. At the start, the former had concerned Quinn. Surely it hadn't meant that she had intended to impress  _Hermione_. No! why, she had inwardly reeled at the thought. The object of her desire to impress would have been June - yes,  _June_. She had to look a good role model, after all. And so, Quinn had allowed herself this choice of explanation... naturally.

Time had quickly evaded them in the face of their merriment, however.

As it happens, it had not been until June - out of breath from a boisterous case of the giggles - had glanced up to notice stars beginning to dot the atmosphere that any of them had actually realized the true nature of time.

"Oh!" exclaims June breathlessly. "It's nearly dark!"

Quinn whom at the present sits at June's right leans back on her hands to stare menacingly up at the heavens. The sky seems to mock them with its cheeky cloak of pink, orange, purple, and dark blue. On June's left, Hermione gasps. She, too, had been chortling along with the redhead as she had just received a rather successful blow from June's Stunning Spell.

"Goodness!" Hermione tries to compose herself hurriedly, yet her now hopelessly unkempt and bushy hair is a tried-and-true lost cause. "June, you'll need to be back up to your dormitory soon!"

June groans softly, clearly disgruntled with the idea of underclassmen's earlier curfews.

"But we can do this again one day, right, Hermione?" inquires the little girl, a subtle, starlit etching of a plea lined in the contours of her rounded face.

"Of course," Hermione replies at once, smoothing out her skirt before rising to her feet and extending her right hand for June to take. Quinn's eyes never leave the two of them as Hermione helps June, too, stand. "If you can convince Quinn to leave the castle, that is."

The two girls share a well-meaning chuckle at Quinn's expense, but Quinn remains quite silent. Her gaze rests upon Hermione. Though the blonde's face seems expressionless, she is thinking - considering something with philosophical observation. A moment later, however, Quinn is on her feet, as well, and smiling eloquently at June.

"We'll see," Quinn speaks directly to June now, whom grins.

It is the first time that Quinn thinks that she wants to touch the other girl, to reach out and hug her as an older sister would. Yet she resists, if not unhappily.

"Are you coming?" wonders June as she levels out her mildly disheveled clothing.

"In a minute," Quinn answers a fraction of a second before Hermione, much to the previous' surprise. "I have something I want to talk to Hermione about."

June, though perceptibly curious, nods her head and looks toward Hermione. Momentarily hesitant, the ginger-haired girl moves forward a single step before closing the distance between Hermione and her with a timid yet friendly hug. It takes Hermione only a second of confusion before she is returning the kind gesture, igniting a spark of jealousy in Quinn. Affection is simple for them - so natural and uncomplicated. Honestly, the embrace (if one could even call it this) is over in the blink of an eye before June is starting up toward the castle, but still it lingers in the space in front of Quinn as though it is fashioned as a captured photograph in midair.

It seems almost unreal that, seconds later, Hermione and Quinn are by themselves. There is that distinct irony of being alone but together—together and alone. Quinn recognizes then that it the explanation rides on her. She is in control of the reins, so to speak, and Hermione's eyes are swiftly upon her. Quinn pulls on her sweater and stows her hands away in its front pockets.

"What are you doing?" demands Quinn plainly, her eyes on the stars.

"I beg your pardon," Hermione exhales a small billow of breath into the nippy fall air. "Oh, I'm not sure. Perhaps I'm merely forcing you into having a little fun for a change?"

"No," Quinn is quick to stop her momentum. "What are you playing at? What do you  _want_  from me?"

For a lingering moment, Hermione looks chagrined.

"Must I be playing a game to 'want' for you to feel settled here, Quinn?" pursues Hermione, her eyebrows furrowing in disapproval.

Quinn sighs as she continues to glare absentmindedly at the night sky.

"I yelled at you," Quinn explains flatly. "I didn't expect to see you again."

"Yes, well," the bushy-haired witch is tucking her hands into her own newly-applied jacket. "This doesn't change the fact that you can be a very rude girl at all, and - I'll admit - Harry had quite a lot to do with my coming here today -"

"Harry?" interjects Quinn, the ghost of her temper flaring. "What could he possibly have to do with anything?"

As though witnessing this herself, Hermione shoots Quinn a lessened warning glance.

"Calm down. He merely told me that I ought to give you another go. To be honest, I hadn't wanted to at first, but he made me think about it," Hermione's eyes meet Quinn's at this. "He knows what it's like to be singled out, to be isolated and different - and well, I suppose he made me considerably more sympathetic to your viewpoint."

Something inside of Quinn tightens. A feeling of gratitude, of propensity, seems to beat in tandem with her briskly pumping heart. Though she is quite sure she has never held a private conversation with Harry (or even a substantial conversation of any sort at all), she feels a sort of blind affection for him.

Slowly, as she pries her eyes from the stars, Quinn finds that her anger is involuntarily melting away. With her gaze floating leisurely toward Hermione, she meets her stare there for a moment in contemplation. As Quinn stands now, it is as though she is gazing across at Hermione from the opposite side of a gaping canyon. Hermione is there, on the other side, but just out of reach. Between them lies a vacuum of everything that Quinn has neglected to tell her - or, really, has been unable to tell her. Still, Quinn reaches for her, her fingers arcing to touch. But the canyon is deep and vast, and Quinn's eyes turn to the stars again.

It occurs to her suddenly that the true nature of time is fleeting.

"Sit with me," Quinn sighs severely. "Just for a minute."

Hermione looks absolutely puzzled but, to her credit, she says nothing. She only walks a few paces with Quinn to the swell of a small hill and sits with her there, a good arm's length between them.

For several minutes, neither of them says a word.

"I used to be in chorus," mutters Quinn out of the blue as she picks idly at a few blades of grass. Hermione and she both know that she is prolonging the inevitable. Though, to be fair, only Quinn knows what the 'inevitable' entails.

"Do you sing?" Hermione indulges her softly.

In response, at first, Quinn merely shrugs.

"I don't know," a wry smile crosses Quinn's lips. "maybe just a little."

Out of the corners of her eyes, Quinn thinks that she catches the tiniest of smiles settling on Hermione's lips. Quinn's main focus remains on her plucking of grass, however.

"It was fun," Quinn continues uncertainly. "chorus - or Glee Club, really, was what we called it," abruptly self-conscious, she clears her throat. "It's funny. Originally, I had only joined as a spy. I was Head Cheerleader for my school's cheer squad, and my coach wanted me to help her destroy it the Glee Club. To be fair, I also wanted to keep an eye on my then-boyfriend," the final words send an uncomfortable shudder down Quinn's spine. It doesn't help her nerves, either, that Hermione's gaze is on her now, intense and unwavering.

"I won't try to make myself out to be someone of redeemed quality," maintains Quinn as her fingers swirl unconsciously over her small pile of plucked grass. "In a way, I guess I regret some of the things I did, and in another manner of speaking, I suppose I don't really," she shrugs, feeling her mouth growing drier by the second.

Her anxiety is high and climbing higher still. She knows what she must do, what she must say, and yet this does not cease to terrify her. The thought alone of having to formulate the words after keeping them restricted for so long made her want to vomit. Quinn loathes the idea of this lack of control. Soon the gavel of judgment would be out of her hands and resting, instead, snugly in Hermione's. This frightens her more than she can say.

"I've made a lot of mistakes," Quinn breathes the words, constricted and quiet. "I've put myself and my... my body through a lot. My sophomore year," she swallows the toxic bile that rises in her throat, but still there is a visible quake in her words. Catching this, Hermione seems to hesitate herself - her fingers spreading out as though she had considered touching them to some part of Quinn in a show of comfort. Yet Quinn knows she is inaccessible. If either of them is to reach the other on the other side of that canyon,  _Quinn_  would need to be the one to descend her own - in essence, to jump.

This would be her first descent.

"I messed up," says Quinn, detaching herself from the words. "I got pregnant. I was fifteen."

The words hang in the air like stains. Quinn could not have washed them away regardless of how much she had wanted to. They are there, and there is no wiping them clean. They are permanent, but they had acted as her first plunge. Nevertheless, it would be entirely up to Hermione as to the damage done by this harrowing fall.

It's nearly sick, Quinn assumes, how eagerly that Quinn wishes that she could look upon Hermione's face. What is she thinking? Is she repulsed? Would she judge Quinn for the worst? God, does Quinn ever want to know, and yet all the same, she finds herself trembling as she draws her arms back into herself. Abandoning all form of play with the blades of grass, Quinn wraps her arms around herself, trying to make it appear as though she's simply cold. In spite of her careful ministrations, her own words still act as a grave trigger for Quinn. In her mind - still riddled and bleeding from the experience of her pregnancy and the events thereafter - she recollects the experience and nearly chokes her urge to cry.

 _Later,_  she begs herself, limbs still noticeably shaking as she tightens her grip around herself. Yet she can bare one particular thought no longer. Her eyes, unintentionally round and pleading, turn against their mistress and gaze upon Hermione. They first look into her face, soft and pleasant. Soon after, Quinn discovers Hermione's full yet taut lips. As far as Quinn can tell, she isn't frowning. Admittedly, though, the increasing darkness doesn't aid in this discovery. Veritably, it is Hermione's eyes that tell the entirety of the story.

Dark and pensive, they behold Quinn with a sort of sublime affinity. They are thoughtful but void of judgment. Had there been any previous decrees labeled in the depths of Hermione's eyes, they are gone now - replaced with the essence of enlightenment, understanding, and - it seems - sorrow. As though embarrassed and unwilling to face her tribulations reflected in another's eyes, Quinn turns her stare away and glowers once more at the stars - this time with her head bent and her chin resting upon her knees.

"I had no idea," Hermione's voice comes several seconds after Quinn's revelation (which seems now days-old in contrast). Her tone is reserved, even mournful.

"You are the first person I've told," the words nearly suffocate Quinn on their journey out.

They are met with another equally profound silence. The distance between Hermione and Quinn acts as a farce to them now as their discussion progresses.

"I gave... the baby up for adoption," Quinn adds in monotone. "to a nice woman. I'm sure they're happy,"  _but I'm not._ It is with much difficulty that she keeps these words within herself, but Quinn manages. "I had to leave. Nothing was the same after that. So, I convinced my mother to come here, to England, so I could try to feel normal again."

A sense of déjà vu bids Quinn welcome in the question following.

"Why England?" Hermione asks this so softly that Quinn nearly misses it.

"Just a feeling," a brooding smile appears on Quinn's face. "I guess I know now that it was more than just a common hunch."

In different circumstances, they probably could have shared a laugh at this, but it is only weighted quiet that follows. Oddly enough, however, Quinn experiences, too, a kind of buoyancy. Her chest, formerly constricted with the anguish of her confession, feels only placidly aching if not mostly relaxed. She feels positively lighter in comparison to before.

"You have been through quite a lot," Hermione murmurs thoughtfully.

"I'm not looking for your pity," replies Quinn at once, her newfound weightlessness bringing with it a bit of her old spark.

Patiently, Hermione shakes her head.

"And I am not looking to degrade you with it," she tells her serenely. "I feel for you, though, Quinn. I feel for you, and I almost feel, too, as though I now have glimpsed the beginnings of who it is you are," those dark, deliberating eyes rest fully upon Quinn now as Hermione angles her body more toward the blonde. "But I do not - and will not - pity you. You are above that."

Fresh heat, foreign in the face of the autumn cold, spills across Quinn's body. It visits first her cheeks followed shortly by her ears and her neck, her chest and her stomach. Soon, her entire body from head to toe-tips feels to be on fire with both flames and pinheads. Quinn is on her feet before she realizes it with Hermione quickly following suit.

"That's all I have to say," Quinn informs her plainly, the stars reflected in her deep green eyes. "Thank you for... for sitting with me." in her pockets, her fingernails pull violently at the seams of her sweater's material. She feels uncomfortably hot and suddenly wishes that the sweater had not been on her at all, despite the chill.

Though Quinn continues to look elsewhere, she can still feel Hermione's piercing gaze. It feels to stare straight through her.

"That you would tell me any of this speaks volumes to me," comes Hermione's tender reply.

Quinn licks her lips and tries desperately to pull her own eyes off the sky to meet Hermione's gaze.

"And if you tell anyone I'll -"

But she stops. Her unfinished threat falters and then flounders before them as they stare into each other's eyes. A silent understanding looks to have passed between them in this moment.

"I wouldn't dream of telling a soul, Quinn," Hermione affirms, chancing to move a single step forward.

"Not even Harry," Quinn is saying fiercely before she can catch herself. "or Ron, or anyone."

Hermione watches her with firm resolve.

"No one. No one at all."

"Good," mumbles Quinn, gazing off to her left then, incapable of holding Hermione's gaze any longer.

They stand once more as though suspended in both space and time. There is no curfew, no absent sun. There is only Quinn and Hermione on a small hilltop just shy of the castle.

"I would like a chance to know you, Quinn," Hermione discloses to her delicately, edging another pace forward. "outside of any obligation, just you and I - meeting of our own accord. I wouldn't be your instructor, and you wouldn't be my pupil," even in the darkness, Hermione's eyes - which Quinn had since taken to - look to shine with prospect. "I would just be Hermione, and you... you would just be Quinn."

There is a pause before Hermione sums it all up with a cordial yet definitive request:

"Will you allow me this?"

Quinn could hear her own blood thumping wretchedly in her ears. Wordlessly, she thanks the sun for stealing away with its light, for concealing her face which she knows to be cherry red. She swallows, her mind ticking away with the weight of Hermione's proposition. Quinn can barely think, much less conjure up the words that fall short of her mind's present abilities. She can only nod, bob her head once up and down; and this seems to do the trick. Hermione takes to her muted response with a tentative smile.

"The library," says Hermione. "Will you meet me there tomorrow just before lunch hour?"

Before Quinn can hoarsely voice her misgivings about Madame Pince, Hermione flashes a certain grin at her - as though having read her mind.

"I know a particular spot where we will go unheard," she contends. "Trust me."

"If you say so," Quinn says at last, unexpectedly and quite awkwardly discovering her voice a good octave lower than usual. She clears her throat at once, sharp needle-points stabbing at her cheeks at the horror of it all.

"Magnificent," whispers Hermione as she takes in Quinn's appearance. "I'll see you there, then?"

When Quinn only nods, Hermione seems to prepare herself for the trek back up to the castle. Their curfew now seems to loom treacherously over their heads, and yet something looks to hold Hermione back. Quinn, with her hands still in her pockets, watches as Hermione pauses mid-step, an imaginative yet indiscernible thought bubble poised above her head. In an instant, Hermione puts her foot down before turning her body away from the castle and back toward Quinn. What happens next seems to occur of its own accord, without any sort of participation on Quinn's part.

Hermione's arms are wrapped around Quinn before the blonde can think to thrust her backward. As though a victim of spontaneous combustion, the heat that had previously inhabited Quinn's body explodes with devastating force to every inch of and immediately around Quinn. Her heart, too, quickly jumps to her tapered throat where Quinn thinks she audibly chokes on it. Yet it must have gone unheard for soon Hermione is bidding her goodbye and beginning up the slope toward the castle, insisting that Quinn follow along, as well. Quinn, however, feels rooted to the spot, her entire body a display of unseen flames. She is left but to stare after Hermione's wake, her eyes slightly wider than before, fearing for the damage that has just been done by this unwarranted touch.

But nothing comes. Though hotter and more perplexed for it, Quinn's mind shows no signs of death or gore, foresight or prophecy. Quinn had been touched and fared well enough psychologically to relive the tale.

Breathing somewhat excitedly now, her eyes trail Hermione as she disappears further along the field toward Hogwarts castle. For a moment, she thinks that she hears Hermione call for her, but this comes in tangent with a pulsing thought that bars Quinn's mind from all else.

Has Quinn's strict derailment of touch all been for naught? or had there been a reason that Hermione's embrace had triggered not a single vision?

For the first time in months as Quinn follows Hermione's retreat toward the entrance hall, Quinn discovers that her usual menacing sadness has been replaced with what almost feels like giddy curiosity.


	13. From the All-Seeing Eye

There is no sunlight where she drifts, weightless and undefined. Her feet, bare as the day she had been born, bob and sway like buoys set precariously afloat at sea. They are unmoored if not lopsided, for she hangs again atop her ambiguous cloud. Blond and spectral, she bears the ceremonial linens of a maiden of old - the purest of white and the lightest of thread. Her dress is unyielding and buoyant (much like her feet). It resembles a lonely apparition by the manner in which it sways and bends to the delights of the unnatural breeze, and somehow the girl (rather unremarkable in comparison) is made better for it.

And she waits.

Upon her ethereal perch, she seems most interested in the goings-on of those below. Dark and indistinct in their own rights, she appears to delight in their welfares just as she looks prone to sadness in their plights. In truth, had it not been for her sunken eyes and prominent blue veins, the maiden may have appeared a goddess of these people beneath her and her cloud. Yet her beating heart betrays her as to her uncompromising mortality. It is then quickly deciphered that she herself is no such angel, indeed - but instead a mere mortal, quite like those below.

Very much alive and very much aware of herself, she waits longer still.

Below, there are those that revel in the upending of their fellows. A flick of the wrist and a flash of green and they presume their problems solved. There is bribery, injustice, famine, and genocide. She watches as they murder one another, as they slay one another's children - their children's children.

Then there are those that permit these - these most grave malpractices. Timid of tongue and fickle of foot, they bow their heads and mumble their apologies as they turn the other cheek. In a manner of speaking, reflects the girl, these folk very nearly rival the wickedness of those in possession of the initially cast stones. They see, but they do nothing. They profit superficially from their silence.

But these tiny figurines below cannot be filed as blunt objects could in just two categories. There are the weak and the strong, the courageous and the cowardly, the sharp and the dull, so on and so forth. They are all complex and capable, and this makes them all the more dangerous for one another.

In this view, they are frightening, but still they are not monsters.

 _'CAN YOU ASCERTAIN HOW IT IS THEY PERSIST TO GO ON?'_  at long last, her guest of honor has come and thusly redeemed her of waiting.

The maiden stirs.

"At each other's expense," she answers at once. "or in spite of each other. Never as one."

 _'THAT IS UNTRUE,'_  bellows Teacher.  _'IF THE BENEFIT OF THE POPULACE IS AT STAKE, THEN THE INDIVIDUAL MEMBERS SHALL TOGETHER COME.'_

"But how do you know?"

_'IT IS... IN THEIR NATURE.'_

"For the beggar to shake hands with the thief?" she presses further, incredulous.

_'IF THERE IS NAUGHT FOR_ _THE BEGGAR TO EAT AND, THUS, FOR THE THIEF TO STEAL, AT WHAT EXPENSE IS THE UNION OF THE BEGGAR AND THE THIEF?'_

This gives her pause as she takes a moment to digest her Teacher's words. She supposes that it makes sense in theory. If what little food the beggar has becomes unavailable, there will be nothing for the thief to steal. Though natural enemies, if neither have food, there becomes a great imbalance. Alone, they are rather unlikely to set right the source of this shortage; however, as a team, they are twice as likely as before to arrive at a more advantageous conclusion.

"And if the beggar and the thief were to call in the assistance of the baker and the scholar?"

_'THE OUTCOME IS FOUR TIMES AS LIKELY AS IT WOULD HAVE BEEN WITH THE BEGGAR ALONE.'_

"The more the merrier," hums the girl.

 _'THE MORE THE MERRIER,'_  her Teacher parrots in a vibrating drone.

"And it is I who is supposed to tell them this?" she asks in true skepticism.

 _'NO,'_  decides Teacher.  _'THAT IS FOR THEM TO COME TO KNOW.'_

Because of this, the girl allows the subject to be for now. There are, after all, other worries on her mind.

"How do I control them?" she wonders as though this is the only natural next step in the progression of their exchange. "My visions?"

 _'YOU ASK WHAT SHOULD BE OBVIOUS, QUINN FABRAY,'_  defers Teacher.

The tranquility that the setting had initially rewarded her with vanishes at this reply. Now it is anger and frustration that wreaths around Quinn. She does grow tired of her Guide's apparent games.

"If I knew already, I wouldn't have asked," Quinn maintains with a frown.

 _'IT IS KNOWLEDGE TRULY UNKNOWN TO US THAT WE DO NOT ASK,'_ Teacher rasps.  _'YOU KNOW, QUINN FABRAY.'_

It is this point in the discussion that Quinn assumes that she will begin to evaporate. So many times before, she had asked a question of such significance of her Teacher, and then had been whisked away to reality once more. Yet this never comes. She remains with silence lingering peacefully in the air. In spite of this, Quinn knows, too, from experience that berating the spirit for a clearer response will do her just as little good. It is unlike her Guide to be anything, save enigmatic.

"I haven't told anyone," continues Quinn. "I haven't let them touch me."

These words, whether by chance or serendipity, bring with them the onslaught of violence beneath their feet. The people fight and scream, and there is red and green to show for this. Anxiety begins to rap hungrily upon Quinn's chest. Should she stand? Should she descend the cloud to fight? but at what cost? which side? Surely she couldn't just sit here with Teacher and do nothing at all.

"Tell me," she demands this of her Guide. "Tell me what it is I must do. How do I control them? How do I protect others from them?"

_'YOU CANNOT PROTECT YOURSELF AND OTHERS FROM WHAT IS INEVITABLE.'_

"Tell me!"

_'WHAT YOU IMPLORE IS IMPRACTICAL.'_

"But how do I control them? or- or, rather—how do I harness them?"

_'YOU KNOW, QUINN FABRAY.'_

"But I don't!"

_'YOU KNOW.'_

* * *

Her dreams have been much the same in this way. Night after night, she visualizes more or less the same scene. Unsullied, she lingers on that cloud, waiting for something - waiting for Teacher. As though an omnipotent presence, Quinn watches those below whom she knows to be people, faceless yet familiar. They fight and pillage, but she can (or, at least, subjects herself to) do nothing. She waits for Teacher whom only arrives at last to speak to her in riddles as her cryptic Guide always does. She is left without help.

The only solace comes from the fact that the dream seems to grow ever longer. Since the latter end of the middle of October, Quinn has been having this dream. Originally, it had just Quinn drifting. Slowly but surely, it had morphed into something more. Now cast into the throes of early November, the dream presents itself as it is now - as it had been this morning.

Nevertheless, she remains still without an answer and, as of the beginning of this month, without the usual blind comforts of her medication. As though standing at the frontlines equipped only with an ill-fitted butter knife, Quinn is left to assume that it's now only a matter of time before she is to return a slave to her depression-riddled mind. She supposes that she, at the very least, doesn't have Emmeline to worry about anymore. As of about a week ago, the woman had stormed back into her life, unperturbed if not a bit stoic.

"It is a matter of which little can be done," Emmeline had told Quinn of the former's powers as they had met for one evening of magical studies. The older witch's eyes had looked bloodshot even in the dim light of their studying quarters (an empty classroom). Unsurprisingly, this had bothered Quinn. For weeks, her mentor had been scarce, and at last she had come back only to subject Quinn to this load of utter crap.

"Well, Professor Trelawney seems to think differently," Quinn had quipped tersely that evening.

"Professor Trelawney is of many pessimistic opinions, Quinn," the woman had remarked quickly as she had shuffled through her belongings. "In any case, should her wild theories be - by a long shot - true, you need only work harder at your training. To hone your skills, if you will."

Quinn recalled watching, aggravated, as the mousy witch had settled at her desk.

"And what of Draco Malfoy? Or have you already forgotten what I had told you about his meddling?"

"Have you given thought to the possibility that you misunderstood Mr. Malfoy?" Emmeline had queried, much to Quinn's chagrin.

"Are you insane?" the blonde had snapped at the time, utterly bewildered (but mostly annoyed). "The jerk's been having his hired help tail me for weeks!"

"Yes," Emmeline had appeared exasperated. "but have you given any pause to his intentions?"

"He wants me to 'choose sides' - whatever that means. I  _told you_ ," Quinn had grumbled.

"Perhaps you should discover the true nature of his attempts to receive you," she had shrugged then, as though the matter had been no more than the discussion of the weather. Too furious to speak at that time, Quinn had dropped the issue entirely, unable to listen to Emmeline's ridiculous claims any longer.

At the present, Quinn reflects that Emmeline is becoming no better than Trelawney and her conspiracy theories. Really, as the end of the year seeks soon to arrive, the blonde worries that she has few sane individuals left around her.

There is, of course, little June with her youthful bliss and splendor. The young Ravenclaw has been attending at least one or two of Quinn's training sessions with Hermione every other week these days. Then, though many others would protest, there is also Luna. Quinn and Luna share a more subdued yet equally purposeful relationship in that they roam the grounds in near silence, pausing to speak only when Luna deems necessary. It works, if only for them.

Hermione, while Quinn still hesitates to admit it, is the last of her remaining sanity. Since that night amongst the training grounds, the Gryffindor witch has stayed true to her words. The girls have been seeing each other in the library a couple of times a week since. Though Quinn could have never foreseen this, it never fails to alarm her how quickly these casual meetings have become a source of unprecedented comfort for her. Normality had been what Quinn had wanted, and Hermione had somehow managed to give it to her. Even on days when the two of them would not speak, when they would just sit in the library and study together or simply read - it had been paradisiacal simplicity. It had merely worked.

Yet not even Hermione can remedy the effects of Quinn's medicinal withdrawals. Now three days into the cacophonous absence of her antidepressants, Quinn is lucky to sustain a meager headache to last the day. Her head feels bulging, as though it has never belonged to her - as though her neck doesn't intend to hold on to it much longer. The hammering sensations that rock through every pressure point of her face and skull are, at best, excruciating. Quinn has often felt woozy and detached as though she is an outside source peering down at her helplessly meandering body. The lack of her pills, which she had been taking since the day after she had given birth, is a profound loss. She can feel it in every ounce of her being as though a prominent limb has been taken from her.

But it is the hallucinations (minor, for the time being) that have truly alarmed her. Her dreams - traumatic in their grisly wartime panoramas - have looked to have infiltrated her waking life for good. Even now, as she coils her navy and bronze Ravenclaw scarf around her neck and steps out of the entrance to the common room, she feels like a visitor in her own body. She is to meet Hermione, but it crosses her mind that she suddenly doesn't comprehend this - this most simple task. Her feet, unencumbered by the law of gravity that others are subjected to, reel at the sensation of solid ground beneath them. Quinn walks the hallways toward the library in a cloud of amnesia, her extremities an array of pins and needles.

 _'Where are you going?'_ the walls seem to inquire of Quinn, to which she replies wordlessly:  _To the library? To the library to meet with Hermione. Her - mi - o - ne._

And the walls laugh. Quinn scowls at them, rubbing her right temple all the while. In her head, it feels perfectly natural to wage an argument with the castle walls. Their voices are loud and rude, after all - practically begging for retribution. They are badgering her for her lack of comprehension, and they seem so humanlike.

 _'Why do you bother?'_  they continue to criticize Quinn.

_Leave me alone._

Quinn's head feels empty now - no dust or cobwebs. Not even air sees it a suitable place for living as she rounds the corner nearing the library. The walls continue to whisper, but she ignores them. Though their breath, hot against her skin like steam, billows against her flesh leaving goose pimples, Quinn somehow manages to enter the library where she would meet Hermione unscathed by their threats. More or less, she stumbles inside and makes her way to the farthest, most disguised corner of the place.

Though now the books, too, have joined the walls in their taunting. She can feel their stares -  _the wretched fiends._

"Quinn!" comes a quiet gasp - Hermione's.

A grunt of greeting is all Quinn can muster as she slips into the chair beside the other girl. The leering of the nearest book,  _Practical Magic for the Practical Witch or Wizard_ , is both malevolent yet foreseen. A zap of pain shoots through Quinn's temples at that moment, and she turns her head as though in slow motion toward Hermione whose eyebrows are furrowed.

"I had begun to think you weren't coming today," Hermione remarks lightly, though Quinn thinks for a moment that her tone sounds very nearly sad.

"No," drones Quinn, the white noise in her head growing louder (' _Why do you bother? why do you bother?'_ ). "I overslept."

This is a lie, but Hermione needn't know. Quinn has barely slept for three days now.

"Oh," her voice is but a gentle vibration in the air (silvery white from the looks of it). Hermione says nothing else as she takes her previous book in her hands, her thumbs grazing it poignantly.

For a heartbeat, Quinn just watches her out of the corners of her eyes - serene and austere. Even in Quinn's otherworldly state, she can still see Hermione clearly. Today her hair is pulled back in a clean ponytail. It is unbelievably neat yet retains the unkempt sense of humor that Hermione's bushy hair has been known to possess. A lopsided smile glides across Quinn's lips as she leans against her own left palm. Hermione's hair, though characteristically large, is rather nice.

 _'Why do you bother?'_  they whisper to Quinn again. She ignores them another time as her eyes continue to absentmindedly trace patterns over the contours of Hermione's busy expression.

"Quinn?"

"Mm?" hyper-aware of herself, Quinn blinks to attention. Her thoughts seem surprisingly louder than before.

"You..." an unvoiced question lingers on the tip of Hermione's tongue; Quinn can, in her withdrawn mindset, essentially see it sitting there. "Are you all right, Quinn?"

Forcefully driving a shudder from her body, Quinn offers Hermione a sloppy sort of grin.

"I've been better," she says, "but I've also been worse."

"Fair enough, I suppose," it's funny to Quinn how Hermione doesn't even try to hide her doubt. "How is June?"

"Fine," replies Quinn coolly. "but she'll be even better once I make a trip to the Slytherin Dungeons."

Hermione regards her oddly.

"Make a trip to Slytherin? Whatever for?"

A faint flicker of dark humor coasts across Quinn's eyes.

"I have a lesson to teach about the consequences of bullying."

"Quinn, you must certainly can _not_!" Hermione declares firmly, looking horrorstruck. "Alert your Prefects or a Head of House, but you cannot take such matters into your own h—"

"Watch me."

 _Wouldn't Santana be proud?_ Quinn reflects with a hint of playful malice as she combs her right hand through her stringy hair. She feels suddenly clammy, as though her body temperature had both dipped drastically and skyrocketed at the same time. She nearly misses the stern look of discouragement on Hermione's end.

"I do not approve of this," she is telling Quinn point-blank.

"You don't have to," Quinn tries to sound resolute but this falls flat as she shifts uncomfortably in her chair. The air around her feels to have climbed even higher in temperature.

"What's the matter?" asks Hermione, a trace of her prior annoyance still in her voice.

"Nothing, just- I don't know, restless or something," it truly is a pitiful answer, but Quinn can't be damned to think of something better. Beads of sweat are beginning to form at her brow. Hermione frowns at her.

"Quinn, you're sweating," she observes pointlessly.

 _Thank you_ _, Captain Obvious._ As Quinn's pulse quickens, she finds herself incapable of bickering with Hermione. She feels encased in heat, smothered, and almost unable to breathe.

"How about we get some fresh air, then?" Hermione pursues the matter feebly, something obviously pestering her. "We can sit down by the lake."

Something inside of Quinn seems to tug her back toward the earth, to yank at the unraveling tethers that keep her there. In the same breath, however, this rocks the few contents of her stomach, nearly causing Quinn to become sick.

 _Outside_ _. It's cooler outside_ , Quinn tries to rationalize with her numb mind.

"Okay," she says ultimately.

Within moments, Hermione has set her belongings aside, and they are on their feet. In an effort to block out the chatter of the bookcases, the walls, and the portraits, Quinn stares ahead and resolves to keep herself as grounded as possible. However, she figures it likely that this would be one of her final grasps on reality as she feels the numbness of withdrawal slipping further and further up her body. It rests now at her diaphragm. It is because of this that Quinn is only vaguely aware of how close Hermione walks.  _It's as though she knows._ But how can she? Quinn has told no one.

"Do you mind sitting on the ground?" queries Hermione, as they pass the threshold leading to the outdoors.

The sun's initial assailment is a brutal one, and Quinn's unnaturally dilated eyes would have screamed had they been able.  _Ground_ , repeats Quinn's mind robotically,  _She asked if you minded sitting on the ground._ For several seconds, confusion overpowers Quinn. Even the simplest of thoughts are becoming virtually indecipherable.

"I- no," Quinn swallows, blinking against the sunlight. "That's fine."

Feeling the immense weight of Hermione's pensive stare, Quinn aims to eclipse the sun with her hand like a visor. Yet now the wind has come to mock her. It sweeps through her hair, tangling and combing in tandem as though to sing:

_'You will die; they will die; everyone will die.'_

Quinn's heart sputters in her chest, and she involuntarily gropes for it through her blouse. Luckily, Hermione appears not to have noticed for they now near the shore of the lake. Continuing to grasp fruitlessly above her left breast, Quinn winces once more against the knife-like sun.  _Go away, damn you!_  she longs to growl. Her eyes feel as though they are hemorrhaging against the rude shine.

"Right here," Hermione's voice is but a provisional breeze.

With much effort, Quinn looks around. They have arrived at a tree near the lake. It provides ample shade, but in Quinn's present condition it looks to do little to rid the blonde of the sun entirely. Still, it's sufficiently better than nothing at all.

Another crooked smile is given to Hermione as Quinn settles, essentially pressing her backside to the trunk of the tree before descending it to sit. How the stars (though masked by daylight) seem to cascade down with her! Everything gives off the impression of being upside down. Something inside of Quinn, a distant flame of light, tells her to ground herself, to descend her cloud and rejoin Hermione at the tree trunk.

"Hey, Hermione?" Quinn is speaking before she realizes it herself.

Beside her, Hermione looks up from smoothing down her skirt.

"Yes?"

"I want to know more about you," the concept is presented with a palpable degree of awkwardness. "I mean – ah, well," this is where Quinn regains her former swagger. "you know more than your fair share about me, don't you?"

To Quinn, her own voice sounds like an echo, as though she is hearing it from the opposite end of a long, metallic tunnel. Nevertheless, it had worked. At least it had been said.

"That's quite a broad topic," admits Hermione, the etching of a coy smile upon her face. "What do you want to know specifically?"

"Where are you from? What's your family like? That sort of thing."

It is a chore to speak now. Quinn wishes only for Hermione to commit to the laborious duty for her. The latter's voice is soothing, clear as a bell and yet as gentle as the tinkling of an old-fashioned music box. Perhaps it can calm Quinn's budding anxiety or quell the gripes and moans of the cardinal winds.

 _'You will die; you will die; everyone - will - die,'_  they assure in song to Quinn whom inwardly groans.  _'and they'll all be better for it.'_

 _Go away_ , she tells them, but they only guffaw as they continue their tribal chant.

"I was born in London, near Surrey," Hermione speaks delicately from where she sits at Quinn's left. "My father's name is Willard, and my mother's name is Jeanine."

Quinn presses her back against the trunk of the tree and closes her eyes, trying to form a coherent picture in her mind. She has no such luck, of course, as only apocalyptic chaos follows.

"Only child?" prompts Quinn as she tries to wage war on the gory motion pictures in her head.

There is a subtle pause (and Quinn is left to assume that perhaps Hermione had, at first, nodded).

"Yes," Hermione sounds to be smiling. "my parents are Muggles, you know."

"Yes, I remember."

"Muggle dentists."

Quinn licks her lips as her head comes to rest against the tree as well.

"That must've been hell growing up," the blonde laughs faintly. "I imagine your parents were health nuts."

"Only a little," Hermione's tone seems to have tightened slightly. "As their only child, I believe that I was fairly indulged."

Quinn is left to assume that she may have hit a tender spot with her teasing. In spite of this, cheer still manages to weasel its way into the brunette's voice. Quinn chances to open her eyes to subtly peer at Hermione. A humored grin finds Quinn here as Hermione had apparently drawn her knees to her chin where Hermione's arms look to rest snugly. Quinn reckons that she has never seen the seasoned witch so uptight.

 _'Better for it_ ,' howl the winds as they seem to read Quinn's mind. ' _They'll all be better for it.'_

Another jolt of electricity ricochets off the walls of Quinn's skull, and she grimaces. Day Three is proving more formidable an opponent than Quinn could have ever imagined.

"How'd they take it, your parents? You being a witch and all," Quinn continues to egg Hermione on. If she can just get her to keep talking, perhaps the noise would die down. It is this, and Quinn is - if not a bit reluctantly so - genuinely interested, too.

"They were... bemused," Hermione admits lightheartedly. "but still rather proud."

Another zap, another jolt. Quinn is clenching her jaw as though her life depends on it now. Her pulse is pounding in her ears, and she blinks in confusion for a moment as images strain over her line of vision.

 _'We are coming,'_  gargles the wind of the North.  _'We are coming. We are coming!'_

 _'Dead, dead, dead,'_  choruses the South.  _'Mudbloods! Mudbloods!'_

_'The Dark Lord rises again!'_

"Quinn?"

The final voice is Hermione, and Quinn feels once more as though she has been wrenched from the imperial tides of pandemonium that seek to engulf her. Quinn swallows, trying not to shiver from the sudden abnormal cold that settles all around her.

"I'm sorry," she mutters. "What was that?"

"I asked if you were all right," Hermione ventures melodiously, angling her body more toward Quinn.

"Fine," Quinn shrugs. "That last breeze was really... cold."

Quinn witnesses a look of bewilderment flash across Hermione's face.

"There's scarcely any wind at all today. Are you... sure you're all right?"

"Yes," this is said more firmly than Quinn would have liked. "Now tell me more about yourself... ah, please." It is a frail attempt at redemption for her short temper.

At this point, Quinn is essentially fighting to keep her head above the white rapid waters of her raging mind. She sees pictures, places, words, colors, and things. Some are familiar to her, but most are obscure. The blond witch yearns desperately to be able to grasp onto the plain concepts of Hermione's words, but they seem somehow unattainable. In her present condition, Quinn knows not the abstract workings of simple words. 'Up' is not 'up' anymore but something more perplexing. Not even 'down' will suffice for the way that Quinn's mind jolts and whirrs like a broken clock. She is sinking.

Wizards in all-black cross her mind, shrouded and masked; and she knows at once that she has seen them before, that perhaps she even knows them. Her left forearm stings and itches, but she doesn't cry out. She walks with them as they march in unison, their steps utterly resolute as they are a people faced with a central purpose.

The Snake Man is near.

_'CONCENTRATE, QUINN FABRAY.'_

_"Nice of you to show up,"_ growls Quinn, now conspicuously dressed in her ceremonial garb of white and plucked from the ranks of the dark wizards. Given Teacher's track record, she had hardly expected the fickle entity at all for this trial.

_'YOU SPOKE OF CONTROL; IT IS NOW THE APPROPRIATE TIME TO SEIZE IT, LEST YOU WALK TOO FAR.'_

_"What are you—_ _"_

_'CONCENTRATE. YOU ARE THE GUARDIAN OF YOUR POWERS, NOT THEY OF YOU.'_

_"Easy for you to say. How the hell am I—"_

_'SILENCE YOUR THOUGHTS. GROUND YOURSELF. CALL DOWN THE SHADES OF YOUR MIND'S EYE.'_

_"That doesn't make any god-damned sense!"_ Quinn spits furiously, her anxiety cresting as she witnesses the horde of obsidian wizards ascending a tall hill where they would at last meet the Snake Man.

 _'NOW,'_ wheezes Teacher.  _'YOU - MUST - DO - IT - NOW.'_

_"All right... FINE!"_

An explosion of color spills across Quinn's eyes: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet. There are pulses, beats of green and red (red and green). Over and over and over again, they stain her vision, yanking her forward and back in a battle for her consciousness.

_Silence your thoughts._

Quinn snaps her mind shut like a music box, old and nearly off its hinges. There is a distant tinkling from within, but Quinn knows that the deed has been done.

_Ground yourself._

Now tugging at the metaphorical tethers around her ankles, she wills herself to solid ground. The tethers, bound yet now rendered unnecessary for their purpose, pop into nonexistence.

_Close your Mind's Eye._

Like curtains, she pulls them to. They shut without defiance, and the final task is accomplished. She is alone with herself in a way that she has not been for some time now.

But the music box still warbles its refrain.

"Quinn? Quinn!"

The familiar tinkling of the capsized music box draws Quinn from that place of darkness. How long has she been there? Where is she now? Her eyes are still shut, and she fears the prospect of opening them again.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake...  _Quinn_!"

Yet she does all the same, and light - pure and unfiltered - leaks into her eyes as bright as anything she has ever seen. Quinn inhales with a stuttering breath before realizing that she is here beneath the tree in quite the very same place as before. Save for having sunk down a little way along the trunk, she hasn't moved. And—

"Hermione," the name is unsaturated on Quinn's tongue. She turns her head to find the other girl staring at her from up on her knees, wide-eyed and just barely trembling. Her cheeks have since surpassed their healthy glow to take on a shade of fearsome red. Hermione looks positively alarmed.

"What happened?" rasps Quinn, pawing her own knuckles against one of her eyes.

"I thought you were having a- a seizure!" Hermione's chest is heaving. "Quinn, what in the  _world_  is going on?"

The urge to answer sarcastically is strong, but uncertainty and even fear keeps the strident words at bay for the time being. What had Hermione seen? Moreover, what had Quinn been doing? The former hesitates to consider anything at all, especially since Hermione had thought Quinn had been having a seizure.

"Nothing I can't handle," Quinn tries to keep her tone level, but still Hermione bristles.

"Do you take me for a fool, Quinn Fabray?" snaps Hermione as she rises to her feet to wave leaves and other natural debris off her.

Quinn frowns and follows suit, albeit shakily.

"No," she permits her shoulders to fall. "It's just nothing to worry about."

"Nothing to worry about!" Hermione beholds Quinn with sardonic incredulity. "Quinn, you were shaking and crying out. You're absolutely drenched with sweat and about as pale as death itself. I thought I was going to have to carry you up to the hospital wing myself for Merlin's sake!"

Pursing her lips tightly together, Quinn bites back a noise of discomfort as her stomach lurches. Hermione can't understand. No one else ever had. True, she had told Hermione of her pregnancy when she hadn't needed to - or even, really, wanted to, but that had been nothing (or, had it?). Hermione needn't know about her depression, her anxiety, her inner most thoughts and fears—or god forbid, the extent of her powers.

"Well?" snaps Hermione, still flushed as she crosses her arms over her chest. "What is it you aren't telling me? Quinn, maybe I could- maybe I could even hel-"

"No," Quinn says stubbornly. "You can't."

Heat begins to pool first at Quinn's extremities before starting to surge slowly inward and throughout her body. The numbness that she had felt previously seems to, for a moment, disperse.

"How would you know?" laments Hermione with an infuriated frown.

Another jolt, another zap -  _a chink in the armor._

"Oh, for god's sake!" grumbles Quinn as her arms rise and fall angrily. "I just haven't been sleeping, all right. There! Are you happy now?" Quinn rounds on her with her voice much louder than she had originally intended. For half a second, Hermione appears stunned. Though, her stern expression looks to melt rapidly.

"There are potions for that, Quinn," she is saying soon after. "For goodness' sake, there's no need to be proud or stubborn over a sleeping probl-"

The crack in the armor thickens – multiples.

"You don't understand," Quinn repeats her thoughts childishly. "You can't understand!"

"Then help me to!" Hermione insists, unintentionally mimicking Quinn's juvenile tone of voice.

Frustrated, Quinn feels that final fiber snap. Why the hell not? If Hermione is going to ruin Quinn, the blonde rationalizes that the other witch may as well take Quinn down with everything that the ruddy teenager's got.

"I ran out of them, Hermione. Okay? I ran out of-" she licks her lips quickly before irritably averting her eyes. "I ran out of my medication -  _there._  Now will you shut up about this? I don't want to-"

To what? Talk about it? Of course Quinn does. She has wanted to talk about this – all of this – for months and months, and not to some professional that is paid by the hour. Someone to listen—that has been all she has wanted for all this time, and now faced with the possibility of at last achieving this dire need, Quinn is fearful. Thus, she reacts – and with anger.

But Quinn nonetheless stops herself and casts her eyes somewhere off in the middle of the lake. She knows Hermione is watching her, and yet she can't meet her gaze. Shame _,_ foreign and unwelcome, snakes around Quinn's neck, wrists, and ankles like cuffs. She hadn't meant to tell her. Quinn hadn't wanted her, Hermione –  _of all people_  – to know. Already Hermione knows too much about her. And now this – this would be the final straw, the axe to the neck of their blossoming friendship.

"Your medicine?" Hermione reiterates almost inaudibly. "Quinn..."

"No," Quinn moves quickly backward with her palms up as she feels Hermione sway closer. "No, I told you-  _no_."

"Why didn't you just tell me before? the same night that you-"

"Because maybe I'd like to keep some aspects of my life private!" snarls Quinn.

"And confiding your... prior pregnancy to me wasn't private enough for you?" Hermione presses cautiously, her voice benign.

"I wasn't confiding in you," Quinn scowls. "I don't need to confide in anyone."

"That isn't true at all, and I think you know it, Quinn."

It doesn't matter to Quinn that she recognizes her own irrationality. The fact remains that she doesn't want anyone's pity but particularly not Hermione's.

"It's not a big deal," mutters Quinn with a downward glance. "I took something to help me deal with everything after I..." she hesitates and purposefully derails her train of thought. "I didn't plan to be pushed on a damn train to some magic castle in Scotland, Hermione. So I ran out. It's simple. It doesn't matter."

"It  _does_  matter. You have been selling yourself short since you've been here," Hermione blinks her eyes slowly before allowing her crossed arms to, at last, fall. "I told you that I wouldn't pity you, Quinn, and I stand by that. I'm just worried about you. There is a  _world_  of a difference."

"Don't waste your time," Quinn waves away the comment ineffectually.

Hermione, however, looks both determined and a bit stung.

"It is not 'wasting my time,'" she states defiantly as she takes another step toward Quinn. "If  _you_  are not going to worry about you, someone has to."

Quinn, in spite of the numbness and dull pain that intends to make its inevitable return to her body, feels a definite ember of her former self at this.

"That's what mothers are for."

A handful of seconds tick by as both girls look to be sizing the other up. The atmosphere between them is tense yet somehow thawing. What's more is while Quinn fully expects Hermione to lunge forward to catch her by the throat, this never comes. Indeed, the other girl does what very well may be the polar opposite. Hermione  _laughs._

"You," she manages between chuckles. "You... are impossible."

Feeling unexpectedly smug, Quinn produces a limp smirk. Tipping her shoulders slightly upward, there comes a glow of old humor in Quinn's eyes. It is moments like these that cause Quinn to miss fiercely the moments where everything had been flippant and easy - the days of old.

"Maybe just a little."

Their eyes meet then, and for a second it seems as though Quinn has the nerve to hold her gaze. However, Quinn soon looks away, trading nervousness for a subtle grin. Once more it is Hermione who is moving forward, who is urging the conversation on.

"So, allow me to worry but in good measure," Hermione's lips press into a meager smile. "As your friend and as your instructor, let me worry."

 _Friend_. The word starts a domino-effect of flames within Quinn's lower abdomen. She casts her green eyes across the lake again, too hot in the face to even dare to meet Hermione's eyes.

"It's your choice," Quinn decides, trying to sound as though it is nothing and consequently failing terribly.

"Very true," concludes Hermione with a certain look of triumph. "and if you can so happen to stomach my friendship until December, perhaps I can convince you to stop by at some point for Christmas. My parents will be able to see to your prescriptions then - with a few strings pulled, of course."

Quinn's eyebrows wriggle upward. It takes all of her strength not to betray the overwhelming disbelief that she feels. In a gross manner of speaking, the offer almost sounds like a veiled date. It's either that, or Quinn's out of her mind (the latter proving to be a rather fragile argument).

"Is that a formal invitation, Granger?"

"Consider it a tentative possibility, pending your behavior."

And so for the rest of November, Quinn Fabray would try to behave, if only to see how this is intended to play out.

Though several nights of violent shaking, retching, and cold-sweating would follow; though Ron and Lavender's budding relationship would push Hermione to the edge of her sworn friendship with Ron; and though November would prove to be Quinn's longest month in the Wizarding world thus far: Quinn would adhere to her word. Hermione would be permitted to worry and pry, and perhaps come Christmas (a holiday that Quinn detests above all else) Quinn would have something constructive to say for it.

It is either that or perhaps all of them would be dead come Christmas. There is, according to Quinn's increasingly grim visions, always that alternative.

Part of Quinn just about begs for death when faced with the prospect of meeting Hermione's parents. It only fuels her imagination further with purely fabricated theorems and conspiracy conjectures that seeing Hermione during the holidays is somehow indicative to a date.


	14. Last Night on Earth

Quinn has never been one of earnest faith. Nothing short of a higher power has seen her through the doldrums of winter. As she stands now, a scarf wound about her right hand, she considers just how strange she feels about having to return to the so-called 'muggle world' for the Christmas holidays. It seems out of character for her – especially given her present living conditions back at 'home' with Judy. Quinn hesitates to think that she will actually miss this off-the-wall place, Hogwarts. No. The thought is surely, in and of itself, absurd. She turns down her nose as she winds her silver-and-blue scarf around her neck now before tucking it neatly into place.

In spite of it all, time seems to enjoy making quite the court jester of Quinn Fabray. Though she tries to evade it, she is just as incapable as the next. She subjects herself to its whims and submits to a gentle ebb and flow of what others perceive as their shared reality. This is to say, she travels through the cresting waters of December without so much as a hitch. Such a fact is, in large part, charitable to the ever watchful eyes of Hermione Granger and the tentative companionships of June Summers and Luna Lovegood. While every number has its crescendos and decrescendos, December on the whole puts on a lackluster show; and Quinn finds this to be, in retrospect, rather odd.

She is, after all, without her medication. The doctors had warned her of such a bold movement.  _"Postpartum depression is not something to be taken lightly,"_  they had said. Quinn had only scowled at them and begrudgingly snatched the prescription from their green, sweaty palms, but now that the situation sits on her lap, she contemplates their argument. The thought has occurred to her that she may have been cured, but this seems idealistic. Does one ever shake the 'baby blues,' as her mother had so dutifully written her condition off as? Quinn can't say, obviously. She's no doctor. Yet the question begs to be answered. The physical withdrawal had been there. Quinn had retched and ached for days and days, barely able to muddle through her classes; and yet she knows that she has never been here to learn. She has been here as something valuable, something vital that requires protection and overseeing.

No, it had never been about schooling at all.

"What are you doing for Christmas?" June asks suddenly, plucking Quinn from her thoughts. The former rejoins the scene that consists of all of the girls of their room packing their belongings away for the impending train ride home. Quinn, pallid and a bit sickly still, unconsciously draws her decorative shawl around her shoulders more tightly at the word 'Christmas.'

"Probably nothing," shrugs Quinn while thinking pointedly of Hermione's proposal.

"That's dull," frowns June as she stuffs a final, blue jumper into her trunk. "Well, you're always welcome to stop by at the Summers residence for a little Christmas brunch if you feel like it, Quinn."

A preoccupied smile trickles across Quinn's lips.

"Thank you," she licks her lips pensively. "I mean it."

June's cheeks flush with a light shade of rose as she slides her trunk shut and slowly bobs her head. Quinn is left to silence as she meanders around her left bedside toward her nightstand. Checking to make sure that both Temperance and Emalia are out of earshot, she discovers with a bit of pleasure that the pair have apparently slipped down to the common room for a moment.

"Hey, kiddo," remarks the blonde as she allows her hands to dive beneath her pillow. "Am I allowed to give you your Christmas present yet, or what?" in that instant, Quinn is waving a small, green gift-wrapped box. This immediately draws a gasp from June.

"Quinn, you  _didn't_!"

"Yeah," Quinn grins lopsidedly. "I did."

"You- y-ou didn't have t—!"

"Hush," decides Quinn with a sort of coy finality as she brandishes the small item in front of June's line of vision. "You didn't think I'd honestly leave you giftless, did you?" she laughs. "I know I can be a bit of a jerk but  _ouch_ , June."

"Quinn! no, I—"

"Kidding," she's walking toward the small Ravenclaw now. "Just—" Quinn smiles as she promptly extends the present to her. "—kidding. Now save yourself the breath, all right? I've already crumpled up the receipt."

"You're horrible!" June gapes but in good humor. Quinn can see that the younger girl is genuinely flattered if not all-together thunderstruck. There is a definite albeit surreptitious glee about Quinn as she recognizes the bright spark of emotion in June's deep green eyes. The latter is clearly pleasantly surprised.

"Well, go ahead," Quinn coaxes her gently as she slides down to plop pleasingly upon June's bunk. "Open it."

"Now?" yelps June.

"No, later," good-humoredly, Quinn rolls her eyes. "Of course  _now_."

Licking her lips, the blonde settles as June's eyes begin to rove over the delightfully wrapped present. There is delay in her tentative stare, but after a moment, her tiny fingers go to work on the fickle paper. Slowly but surely she pries open the gift until there is nothing left, save a palm-sized off-white box. As though for encouragement, June's chin tips upward, causing the two girls' gazes to lock once more. Unconsciously, Quinn bobs her head up and down, and a heartbeat later, June is back to the task at hand.

Her small hands make quick work of the lid, and there is a definite moment's silence before a soft gasp escapes unintentionally from June's lips. Quinn's heart stumbles dumbly in her chest at the subtle reaction, knowing full well that her roommate has seen the gift at last. A modest silver charm bracelet rests snugly on thick, square-cut cotton.

"It's something special of mine," unexpectedly, Quinn's mouth is dry. "I've had it for years, but I think... I think it's time it had a new—well, a better home."

The corners of her lips twitch awkwardly upward. June has yet to meet her eyes, as she is still staring, wide-eyed, at the bracelet which - at the present - houses only one charm: a faint gold star.

"The gold star, well... just think of it as me giving you some strength and drive from an old... friend of mine," the older witch fidgets on the bed slightly, a familiar pang rattling her bones as she thinks of a certain brown-eyed starlet back home. "It's not much, I know, but—"

"No!" declares June, her meager voice sharp with sentiment. Her eyes are on Quinn now, seemingly moist at their corners as she tucks the present carefully in her palm. "It's lovely! It's wonderf—  _perfect_."

"I'm glad you like it," is all Quinn cares to offer but she is met with a sudden and brash onslaught of touch, of sensation. June has thrown her arms around her, the little box still tucked cautiously in her right hand. Quinn's body goes rigid. She is fearful, still, of the touch of others, and she expects - at any second - to be forced into another one of her macabre visions. After all, they have haunted her now for months. She is left only to suppose that they will come to her now, as rude and uncouth in their persistence as ever.

Yet nothing comes. She is left, bolt upright and tense, with a young girl strung tightly around her. Surely she must appear as wound up as she feels. Quinn attempts to melt her frigid stature by allowing their cheeks to momentarily brush. It is all she is willing to give in lieu of actually having to touch June with her hands—a gesture she would not  _dare._

Pulling back, for a moment, the two girls catch eyes. For half a second, it's just them: green and green, blond and ginger; and they smile.

"You'll..." June sputters over the word, and Quinn encourages her with another upward twitch of the right side corner of her lips. "You'll write... won't you, Quinn?" the question is the epitome of innocence, of genuine and beseeching want. Quinn permits herself to simply breathe at first.

 _'She wants_ me _to write to her?'_ the mental intonation of this concept both baffles and warms her – so much so that she nearly fumbles over the probability of having to purchase some stamps. Of course, she quickly remembers her owl.  _'My owl! …Crap.'_

"Yeah," she says at last, looking humored. "It'll give me a chance to, uh, to use my... owl."

 _'Is the little guy even alive? hell, is it even a guy?'_ Quinn thinks to herself, pursing her lips as she tries not to appear as gobsmacked as she feels. She had never even named the bird.

"You haven't used your owl yet?" prods June, blinking in incredulity. "Not even... once?"

"Nope," Quinn licks her lips, visibly trying to hold back laughter now.

"Have you even visited him or her? let it stretch its wings?"

_'Oops.'_

Running the pads of her fingers over her crowning braids, Quinn releases a stout puff of air.  _'I bet that bird hates me.'_

"Uh-"

"Quinn!" it is clear that June is teasing her, but the exclamation still causes the blonde to smirk nonetheless. "Then Christmas will be a good bonding for you two!"

"I guess I should name it- er, him. I guess it's a boy. I don't know," slouching her shoulders in a shrug, Quinn crosses her legs at her ankles as June yawps humorously. For a few seconds, Quinn sucks in her bottom lip thoughtfully. "Think he'll answer to Bacon?"

" _Bacon_?"

"It's just the first thing I thought of," her teeth rake over her lower lip as she can't help but smile.

"Well, he's your owl..."

"What'd you name your owl?" asks Quinn, raising a playfully judgmental eyebrow.

June's face is cast downward in a display of bashfulness.

"Maisie."

"Cute," Quinn grins sideways. "Bacon it is, then."

At this, June pretends to be exasperated but, really, only succeeds in laughing behind her tightly pursed lips.

"We'll be writing you."

* * *

It's only after she has already boarded the train that Quinn realizes the shift in her mentality. The moment that June had left her presence, the entire tone of her awareness had taken a dangerous dip. That momentary happiness of the younger witch's infectious but timid smile is gone, replaced with all of her usual dreariness. She is left with thoughts of anxiety, of anger, and of sadness.

Quinn exhales quietly, sinking back into her seat. She sits alone in her compartment, having purposefully glowered at any passing nobody that had even entertained the slightest thought of sitting with her. Selfish? of course. Significantly less stressful? you bet. She doesn't have to worry over the impeding dark shadows beneath her eyes or the distant glazed look that they take on when her mind takes her elsewhere. It doesn't matter that she has begun to get her footing in controlling her visions. The strain of their mere existence is enough all on its own.

Her thoughts drift briefly to Emmeline. The distance between mentor and student has never been so vast. Her advisor has successfully wedged a gap between them, and Quinn can't even begin to imagine why. Quinn briefly considers this as something akin to a mother bird shoving her baby bird brusquely from the nest, a sort of fly or flail test, but what the hell kind of good would that do? The novel witch's memories, knowledge, and powers are toddlers at their best and infantile at their worst. Scathingly, she wonders if they are intentionally setting her up for failure – a theory that is quickly shot down by the egotistical reminder that they had mentioned Quinn to be somehow useful to them and others.

Then, there's Hermione. Quinn rolls her eyes, though she doesn't know why.  _Hermione._  Somewhere between their snide remarks and imposing dispositions, they had become what Quinn refers to as almost-friends. It's that awkward transitional space between acquaintances and friends where 'awkward' is the perfect and only word to describe it.

Yet even Quinn will admit that her opinions ( feelings? ) toward Hermione confuse her. She's caught somewhere between wanting to physically push her away and keep her near constantly at exactly the same time. These are two completely conflicting stances, and it is  _frustrating._ Already, Quinn has suffered the saga of having to have been an outsider and unwilling confidant to the Ron and Lavender dilemma. Even just thinking about it makes the nerves in her forehead clench with tension. The aforementioned relationship is only in its early stages, and already it is insufferable – even from a distance. It doesn't help that Quinn had to watch Hermione string an oaf on her arm to apparently validate herself for that stupid Christmas party. She lets out a profound exhale, allowing herself to feel momentarily validated herself before succumbing to shame.

These are matters that hardly concern her, and she resolves herself not to think of them again, even as her eyes ghost over to the door. She catches a flash of color, and for a millisecond, she thinks that her gaze locks with someone else's.

"Hermione?" the name erupts from Quinn's lips before she even has time to realize it and reel it back in. The girl ( or, perhaps, even boy ) in question is long gone by then, leaving Quinn to wonder if she had even seen her. After all, her mind has been making a fool of her for months. It wouldn't be a surprise.

Quinn rolls her lips over one another before blinking her eyes away from the door to gaze out the window. It wouldn't be long now. She would meet her mother at the station and be thrust back into the realm of the natural world, her old world. Maybe this would be good for her, a break from all the presumed chaos and bad blood. Judy isn't horrible company, anyway ( not that Quinn would ever let her mother in on that little secret of hers ).

It's possible that Christmas back in 'muggle' England wouldn't turn out too terribly.

* * *

"Quinnie!  _Oh,_  Quinn!"

Judy's shrill calls sound off like an emergency siren, effectively rooting Quinn to the spot. She stands, parcels clutched beneath her arms and facing her oncoming mother. The older woman is bright-eyed, thrilled, to at long last see her daughter again. At once, Judy's arms are cast warmly around her.

"I've missed you!" she declares, pressing her lips into Quinn's right temple. "Here, let me help you with those."

They fall easily into the typical mother/daughter dynamic. It's almost as though nothing atypical has ever struck them, particularly as Judy shovels the strap of one of Quinn's bags over her shoulder and peeks humorously over at her. They seem normal – wholly so. It's almost uncanny. Still, the two women say nothing else as they begin to walk, each carrying their own fair share while Quinn is stuck with the newly named owl.

"I had forgotten you had one of those," Judy remarks coolly of the bird as they step toward the parking garage.

"To be honest," Quinn steals a quick glance at the little owl. "so had I."

The twosome laughs quietly as this marks the sequence of the remainder of their time together. They talk little on the car ride home. The topics are light and entirely conversational. Judy seems to be making it very obvious that she doesn't wish to speak of magic or witchcraft, and Quinn is more than happy to oblige her.

This is why it strikes Quinn as odd when they are picking their way up the stairs to their homey apartment when Judy makes a sudden announcement.

"Well, oh! I had nearly forgotten," exclaims her mother as she pauses at the top of the last flight of stairs to finger through the belongings in her purse. "You received a letter," she produces the meager envelope in question before padding toward their front door. "from a Hermione Granger?"

Quinn does her best not to react, and in doing so, rattles Bacon's cage as she steadies her arms. The owl chirrups, unhappy from being jarred about so violently.

"She's from school," mutters Quinn.

"I had figured as much, you know, since the letter was given to me by some busty old owl."

The corners of Quinn's lips quiver slightly, but she manages not to smirk. Instead, she receives the letter from her mother, determined not to open it until she is alone in her bedroom.

Upon prying open the door and murmuring that dinner would be another round of Chinese takeout in about an hour, Judy and Quinn part ways. All of Quinn's belongings rest at the foot of her twin-sized bed, just as Bacon's cage sits easily on her desk. She locks eyes briefly with the bird. For a time, they just stare at each other. She entertains the thought of apologizing to it - or, him, whatever - but logic overtakes her.

"You're just a bird," she says, accidentally aloud, and Bacon trills once but piercingly, startling Quinn.

 _'Dumb owl,'_  rolling her eyes, she brushes her thumbs over the letter from Hermione. She studies the handwriting on the front. Quinn's address is written in the other girl's neat and precise handwriting. She inhales and sinks onto her bed as she begins to peel back the flap.

_Quinn,_

_I hope this letter reaches you well. If it suits you, I know that it would greatly please both my parents and myself to see you over the holidays for a casual get-together. Why, my mother is positively enchanted with the idea about my possible involvement in a 'girls' night,' ...but I digress. How does a simple dinner on Christmas Eve around 5 sound? Naturally, your mother is more than welcome to join you, of course. I do hope to hear from you soon. Remember, dress casual._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Hermione_

It isn't until after she is finished reading the letter that Quinn realizes she has been holding her breath. She promptly expels it before rereading the content of the note.

 _'Christmas Eve dinner. Okay. Not so bad,'_ she thinks as the pads of her fingers graze the paper nervously.  _'but Mom is_ definitely _not going.'_

Moistening her lips, Quinn runs her palms down the lengths of her thighs, acutely aware of her pulse's quickened pace. Christmas Eve is in three days. When had Hermione sent this letter to her, anyway? Three days seems rather soon. She turns it over in her hands before setting it forcefully down on her dull green comforter. Quinn stands, hesitating for several seconds before striding toward her desk. Bacon seems to hoot suspiciously as Quinn fumbles through the mess of her desk for a pen or pencil. Outdated and untouched stationary sits unceremoniously off to the side, and part of her frets over coming off as pretentious for using it for such a stupid reply. Even so, as she realizes that there's nothing else, save for scratch paper available, she resigns to using the too-pink, too-mock-Lisa-Frank stationary.

Unsteady with her hands, she grips a blue ink pen before pausing with the tip just above the paper.

_Hermione **,**_

She stops upon scribbling down her name, feeling odd enough as it is for writing a letter to begin with. When had been the last time that Quinn had composed a letter? Moreover, had she ever written Hermione's name down before? What the hell did it even matter, anyway? She snaps back to the moment.

('Letter. Write. Now.')

 _I'm well, thanks._ ('That sounds awful.')  _Dinner at 5 sounds great. My mom's_ ('Think of something more creative than " _she's got work_ ," Quinn.')  _got a date that night, but I'm free._ ('Obviously.')  _It'll be cool to meet your parents._  ('Oh, my god, that sounds beyond lame.')  _Let me know if I should bring anything._

With the body of the letter written comes an indefinite pause.

('Shit, how do I sign it? Can't have her think I'm unoriginal with "sincerely." "Truly yours" just sounds creepy. "Love" is entirely out of the question. "Regards"? Too business-like.')

Quinn nibbles on her bottom lip. She doesn't even realize that Bacon has apparently leaned toward her, beak protruding from the bars of his cage curiously. Exasperated, she goes with the first idea that comes to mind next.

_Take care,_

_Quinn_

"There," she says audibly as she folds the letter once and then twice. "Finished."

Bacon chirrs softly, peering up at Quinn with wide eyes as she tucks the colorful stationary in an awfully plain white envelope. Her chest extends as she expels some of its tension before she realizes that she and the bird are looking at each other.

"Oh," she isn't quite sure why she says this at first. "Right. You, uh, take this, don't you?"

Unsurprisingly, the owl doesn't respond. He simply stares at her. It doesn't take Quinn long at all to feel ridiculous. Nevertheless, she does pry open the latch to the bird's cage and hold out her hand. The small creature hesitates only ephemerally before fluttering out to sit not on Quinn's extended fingers but her forearm.

"Great. Thanks," grumbles the blonde as she stupidly recites the return address from Hermione's letter. "Take this to Hermione Granger."

Her owl's eyes are on her again as he leans up with his beak parted. Feeling unusually uncomfortable for being around a small animal, Quinn waits several beats before sliding the letter between Bacon's beak. Clamping down, it isn't long before the little owl is in flight, soaring out of Quinn's open window to the tune of Quinn tossing, "And don't drop that!" to him on his way out.

* * *

Perhaps Quinn had been more clairvoyant than she had once thought. Christmas Eve morning comes and goes, and she discovers that her mother does, in fact, have certain extracurricular plans for the evening.

"He's a pretty English boy, Quinnie," Judy insists as she rolls her lips with lipstick.

"English  _boy_?" though Quinn knows she is hardly one to judge, the thought of her mother dating anyone younger than thirty positively repulses her.

"Oh,  _man_ , boy—same thing," her mother dismisses her flippantly as she gives herself a once-over via the mirror. "His name is Allen."

From her place sitting on the end edge of Judy's bed, Quinn scrutinizes her the other woman playfully.

"You look great, Mom," she surmises easily. "Really."

Judy stops mid-twirl to cast a legitimate smile over her shoulder at her daughter.

"That's nice of you, dear," she replies meaningfully. "Thank you."

Quinn bobs her head once before slipping casually off the bed.

"And you're sure you're okay to... to-"

"Catch a bus and then hail a cab? Mom, seriously?" the witch grins crookedly at Judy with one eyebrow raised. "I'll be fine. Enjoy your date, and charm his socks off."

There is a gentle lapse of silence as the two study one another. Then, before Quinn can protest, Judy is stepping toward her, ensnaring her tenderly in her arms. Quinn goes stiff for a heartbeat, wary of her hands as she attempts to give the illusion that she is somehow returning the affectionate gesture without having to actually touch her.

"Just be careful," Judy murmurs into Quinn's hair as she pulls back to look at her.

"I will."

And just like that, they part.

Judy bustles out the door merrily while her daughter gazes appreciatively after her. Quinn tugs lightly at her meager black sweater that hangs off her shoulders, her eyes bouncing off the nearby digital clock which reads 4 PM in violent red. Itching unconsciously at her left wrist, she supposes she better be off. Shelving the information of the bus schedule in the forefront of her mind, Quinn snatches up her keys. Hermione had written her back quickly explaining that Quinn need only bring herself, and so now she, nervously, does just that. Closing the door behind her, she shuffles anxiously out of her apartment complex and to the nearest bus stop.

The subsequent (and rather short) bus ride is attended in utter silence. For such a widespread holiday, the bus is virtually empty. Quinn is left to assume that everyone else is already at their chosen destinations. It's either that or she's hopped on some one-way express to sketch-ville. She's praying for the first one, obviously.

In spite of all her unvoiced fears, however, she hops off a mere five miles from Hermione's house. This is where she waits an agonizing ten minutes before she manages to properly hail a cab. Already, she knows she's short on time. Taking a quick peek of her wristwatch, she swiftly realizes that it's six minutes until five.

"Great," she growls as she slides into the backseat and barks out the directions to the cab driver. The car jerks forward, shocking Quinn as she tries to keep her anxiety from climbing any higher.

She knows it's just Hermione, that it's just another dinner with a friend, but her heart is racing. Her palms are sweating. The anticipation is terrible. She amuses the possibility that she hadn't even been this nervous dining with her parents the night that Finn dropped the biggest bomb of her life to date. The teenage witch breathes heavily, her eyes flickering upward as the address numbers flash by, growing higher and higher until...

"'Ere's your stop," the cabby croaks, virtually slamming on the breaks right in front of the address that Quinn assumes belongs to Hermione's house. Needless to say, the contents of Quinn's stomach are less than pleased with the abrupt stop.

"Thanks," Quinn forces herself to sound polite as she shovels the cab fee into his massive palm. "Keep the change."

It doesn't matter that she thinks he doesn't deserve a dime over the payment. She merely wants to be out of that taxi and fast before she adds to the smell of body odor and spoiled food with her own vomit. Bidding him a brisk goodbye, Quinn climbs out from the backseat and strings her purse over her right shoulder. She barely has the door shut before he's off again, nearly knocking the girl off her feet. _'Asshole,'_  she reflects sharply, glaring after the taxi's smoking exhaust pipe.

Inhaling and exhaling, once; twice; and then three times, Quinn stands laboriously at the mouth of the driveway. Once again, she finds herself hesitating before she recognizes her own stupidity in the fact that they have probably already glimpsed her arrival. As noisy as that old taxi had been, it seems only logical.

It is because of this knowledge that Quinn moves. She allows her feet to glide forward, ignoring the fact that this all but feels like an out of body experience. Her only goal is to get to the door in one piece. She sucks in her lower lip as her feet collide with the welcome mat. Quinn lifts her right hand, knuckles apt and ready to rap ceremoniously upon the door, when – right before her eyes – it swings smoothly open.

"Well," comes a voice, peculiar in the manner that it's both recognizable and unfamiliar. "You must be Quinn Fabray."

Before the blonde stands a charming, mousy woman with her hair pulled back into a simple bun. She looks friendly, approachable.

"I-" Quinn closes and reopens her mouth while thinking vaguely to extend her right hand. "Yes, hello."

The woman takes her hand in both of her own cordially, smiling a comfortable and nerve-settling smile.

"It is truly a pleasure, Quinn. I am Jeanine Granger, Hermione's mother. Please," she gives Quinn's hand a squeeze before releasing it to step slightly aside. "do come in."

"T-Thank you," the younger woman returns Jeanine's smile as she steps uncertainly inside the Granger's homely abode. The atmosphere is warm, simplistic and yet all-together soothing. Quinn releases the breath that she's been holding captive in her chest.

"May I take your sweater, dear?" queries Jeanine as she joins Quinn on her right side.

"Oh, I- well, sure, thank you," her words come out in a strange jumble that sounds odd coming from the perpetually composed Quinn Fabray's mouth, but the blonde is quick to shuck the woolly black sweater from her body. Jeanine beams at her encouragingly as she receives it.

Beneath her sweater, Quinn had chosen to wear a floral sundress – regardless of the weather – with a long-sleeved navy blue shawl to keep her moderately warm. Her feet are clad in plain navy flats which, unsurprisingly, do little in the warmth department, either, but Quinn couldn't help herself. She hasn't exactly had time to go shopping to adjust to England's weather.

"What a lovely dress," Hermione's mother speaks again as she pads toward what Quinn assumes to be the kitchen.

"Thank you," Quinn says quietly, abruptly introverted.

"Hermione, sweetheart!" Jeanine calls lightly. "Your friend Quinn is here."

A surprised  _'oh!'_  rings from the kitchen where a clatter of pots and pans follows. A moment later, Hermione appears in the doorway with an apron tied about her neck and waist, looking exuberant in all her state of dishevelment.

"Hello," Hermione smiles, clapping her hands off one another to rid them of whatever she had been working with in the kitchen. "I'm glad you could make it, Quinn."

Quinn's lips twitch slightly. She dips her head vaguely, once.

"Like I said, it beats another round of Chinese takeout," she supplies teasingly to which Jeanine laughs softly and Hermione blinks in understanding.

"On Christmas Eve?" it's a new voice this time. Quinn is correct to assume that it is Hermione's father whom appears shortly after.

"Dr. Granger," Quinn says at once, immediately regretting how rigid her voice sounds. Luckily, the small family of three all seems to grin effortlessly on her behalf.

"Please," insists Mr. Granger, extending his hand, "Just Willard is fine, my dear."

"Quinn," is what the blond witch offers in return as they shake hands. "Nice to meet you both. Hermione's told me a lot about you."

"All good things, I hope," Willard perseveres with a loving smile at his daughter whom grins coyly back.

"She knows a thing or two about your chronicles of mishaps in your dentistry practice, Father," Hermione concedes mischievously as she makes to untie her apron at the back and slip it off her. Quinn takes note of the simple albeit well-fitting green sweater that lies beneath as well as the commonplace jeans. Suddenly, as the guest, she feels overdressed for the occasion. Though, she says nothing as they all turn toward the kitchen.

"Lucky her," chimes Jeanine as they invite one another to the table.

Indecision discovers Quinn once more as she moves toward the table that is set for four. She glances toward Hermione, unpredictably meeting the other girl's eyes. They mutely suggest that Quinn sit nearest Hermione, and for this invitation, Quinn is silently grateful. Taking her place at the brunette's right, it is Willard that sits comfortably on his daughter's open left.

"I hope you're hungry," Willard admits with a reassuring smile. "Our Hermione's quite the chef."

With one eyebrow aloft, Quinn casts a curious look to her left to where Hermione sits, beet red and draping a napkin across her lap.

"Father jests," maintains Hermione.

"And modest, too," her father jokes, affection laced in his every word. A resounding ache extends through the cavities and crevices of Quinn's chest as she witnesses the exchange between father and daughter. Their bond and love for one another is palpable, as though visible to the naked eye.

"I didn't know you cooked," it is a casual observation made by Quinn as she settles her own napkin across her lap to buy her some time.

"Mostly at home, with Mother and Father. We make a family affair of it," she chuckles, locking eyes briefly with both of her parents. The trio share furtive laughs which work to warm and not segregate Quinn. She is wholly entranced by their interactions with one another. It's been so long since she's seen such candor and lightheartedness between family. This is where jealousy and a sense of longing find Quinn, and she is left but to display a somewhat empty smile at their fondness for one another.

"So, Hermione tells us you're from the States?" Jeanine wonders, after a moment, as she takes first to a slice of turkey.

"Yes," a particular blockage ( anxiety, manifested ) lodges in Quinn's throat. "I moved here shortly before I- well, before I got roped into all this witchcraft business."

There is quiet laughter amongst them.

"Ah, yes, we were told that this is your first year at Hogwarts? Rather unprecedented for someone your age but fascinating nevertheless," proposes Willard with a quick side-glance to his daughter whom has taking to her helping of peas and mashed potatoes.

"That's what everyone keeps saying," Quinn admits, trying to remain conversational as she smiles prior to a spoonful of green beans.

"Quinn's an apprentice of one of our professors, Sybill Trelawney," Hermione adds this as a bit of an anecdote.

"An intriguing woman, that one," Jeanine decides just as Willard cuts in.

"Yes, quite eccentric – not that that's necessarily a bad thing!"

"Something like that," now, Quinn is smirking as she catches a sideways glance from Hermione. "I've definitely never met anyone like her before."

From the collective eyebrow-raise around the table, Quinn is left to presume that the rest of them feel more or less the same.

"If you don't mind my asking, Quinn, what brought you here, all the way across the pond, as they say?" Hermione's mother wonders softly as she dabs the corners of her lips with her napkin.

Quinn tries not to stiffen and finds herself perplexed as she can sense Hermione go rigid at her side, as well.

"I- a change of pace," answers Quinn with a valid roll of her shoulders. "You could say that I needed some fresh air or... a new start."

"Well, that's understandable," Jeanine nods thoughtfully. "In any case, we're glad you came. It's been so long since our little Hermione has had another girlfriend to run around with!"

"Mother!" gapes Hermione, surpassing a red complexion entirely and going directly for purple.

"Oh, darling, I know Ronald and Harry are wonderful friends, really, but it's nice to have yourself some girlfriends, too," her mother chides lovingly as Quinn thinks that she, too, will succumb to a bruise-worthy skin tone.

Deciding to go for a bemused look, Quinn licks her lips and casts Hermione a secretive grin. She pretends ( and it's not a great stretch ) to revel in the former girl's budding embarrassment.

"Yes, well, Quinn and I are getting on very well," Hermione says in an apparent attempt to stifle her tied tongue. This comes as a surprise to Quinn whom had essentially thought they had been glorified acquaintances and that this little rendezvous had been one borne out of pity.

"Excellent," Willard says, finishing off his small glass of wine. "She seems like a lovely girl."

As Jeanine thinks to nod, Quinn has to avert her eyes to her half-eaten plate out of discomfiture. All of this flattery, whether faux or genuine has her skin itching. Hoping for a light conversation, it comes as a shock to Quinn when it is Hermione who takes the reins.

"Quinn is from a state called Ohio," she announces matter-of-factly. "From what she's told me, she held quite the status back in the States."

Quinn resists the urge to laugh dismissively. Now she knows Hermione is messing with her.

"She was in a choir called… Glee, I think it was," continues Hermione as she works on the rest of her meal.

"Glee? So, you're a singer, then?" presses Willard, as both he and Jeanine appear truly impressed.

"It was just something to do," Quinn shrugs, suddenly uncharacteristically hot from all of this attention. It's quite unlike her former self, but she can't help but feel it. As though pining for support, she looks to her left, to Hermione, yet again. All she can detect from the witch is an almost imperceptible, lopsided grin.

 _'She's playing this up on purpose,'_  is the American witch's first theory.  _'Well, two can play at that game.'_

"Actually, if you don't mind my saying so, Mr. and Mrs. Granger, I'm more interested in some childhood tales of Hermione over here," suggests Quinn with a positively innocuous upward inflection. Hermione nearly chokes on the remainder of her peas trying to combat this request, but her parents are miles ahead of her.

"A _ha_! Well, I take it she hasn't told you about the time she accidentally jinxed some of my dental tools when she was a child? Mind you, this was before we knew about her gift," Willard chortles, pressing his napkin to his lips as though to mask his huge grin.

Beside her, Hermione groans.

_'Jackpot.'_

"No, she hasn't," a smile of childlike virtue flickers across Quinn's features. "I'm more than interested to hear it, though."

From the tangible electricity crackling to her left, Quinn can only guess that she's in for it big time with Hermione later.

* * *

Dinner finishes in a round robin of everyone sharing comical or embarrassing stories. Quinn had almost forgotten how good it felt to really  _laugh_ , and as Hermione leads her toward the staircase to show Quinn her room, the former nurses her aching sides.

"Your parents are nice," Quinn reflects humorously as they ascend the stairs.

"You are a sneak, Quinn Fabray," quips Hermione sharply, even though her good nature is ever clear.

"It was just payback," grins the light-haired witch. "for practically fronting your parents a twenty for all of that ego stroking on my behalf."

"Not true!" though Hermione shrieks as they round the corner, there is laughter in her voice.

Shrugging her arms outward, Quinn winds around the corner after her.

"It is what it is."

The first step into Hermione's room seems surreal. It feels as though Quinn is intruding on a most private and sacred place. Her lips part, and she inhales. The aroma that wafts into her nose is one that is unspeakably familiar. It is Hermione's distinct scent, her subtle but pleasant perfume. Quinn's lips produce a mild tremor as she moves further inside the space, admiring the lavender walls and the general purple color scheme.

As expected, there are nearly two whole walls of books. Quinn doesn't even try to thumb through the titles with her eyes. Instead, she takes to the bulletin board of paraphernalia, namely the pictures. Some are Hermione with friends but most are scenery, perhaps places that Hermione has visited at one point or another.

"Wow," as lame as it is, it's the first sound to form on Quinn's lips. "It's very...  _you_."

Hermione grins but just barely. Pivoting on her heels, she backs up slightly before plopping elegantly on her bed to sit.

"Well, I would certainly hope so. It is my room."

"You know what I mean," Quinn sneers teasingly. "It's nice. I like it."

"Thank you."

 _'It makes me miss my old room.'_  Those words catch on the back of Quinn's tongue, forever stalling. In essence, she swallows them back down, unable to bring herself to verbalize her nostalgia after such a jovial and lighthearted evening.

"My parents both really took to you," Hermione presents the point nonchalantly. "Not that I'm surprised."

"Oh?" though Quinn's face flushes, she reformats her features to display a look of sarcastic disbelief. "Did you think I wouldn't be on my absolute best behavior?"

"I never once doubted you," persists the other witch. "I knew you'd clean up well."

"Well, thank you, Mother."

Both of the girls share a laugh that renders the pair of them speechless for several heartbeats afterward. Their tones had complemented one another well, like the temperamental bell chimes of adolescence. For a second, they merely stood ( and, in Hermione's case, sat ) in what had turned out to be an increasingly comfortable silence.

"You know, I-" it's Hermione that is hesitating now, and this catches Quinn's attention. "Would you... think I was odd or... mind terribly if I asked to braid your hair?"

The question is so utterly candid. As harmless as it had been, Hermione had, for a breath, left herself open and exposed. Quinn pauses indefinitely, her pulse easily doubling in the seconds that follow.

"I always fancied those braids you wore," Hermione purses her lips into what she must believe is a smile but to Quinn, comes off as more of an inhibited grimace.

"I...  _sure_ , yeah, of course."

Quinn doesn't know what else she's supposed to say. The answer is most assuredly not 'no.' Be that as it may, following the initial awkwardness, they move nearly poetically and wordlessly into place. As Hermione coasts over to her modest vanity to receive a hairbrush, Quinn takes to the small chair in front of it. She slides onto the seat, her eyes wary of meeting her reflection. Keeping her knees together, she trains her eyes instead on the table top of the vanity. For being painted ivory, it's immaculate ( not that Quinn had expected any less ). Breathing a bit more heavily now, the blonde watches from her peripheral vision as Hermione arrives behind her, a brush and a few ponytails in her hands.

"I hope you don't think I've gone mad," the dark-haired girl laughs diffidently.

"No," Quinn shakes her head slightly. "I don't."

Murmuring what sounds like 'good,' Hermione sets down the hair ties as she pauses with her hands poised to grasp a hold of Quinn's golden hair. The hesitation is virtually undetectable, for soon Hermione's astute fingers are combing gently through her blond locks of hair. The sensation of her fingertips running through her hair that follows is heavenly, unutterably therapeutic.

"You have such fine hair," remarks Hermione, a touch of pink on the peaks of her face. Quinn merely smiles at the other girl's reflection. "It's been years since I've braided hair, so please forgive my lack of skill."

"It's fine," sustains Quinn, her scalp prickling with both pleasurable heat and electricity as Hermione begins to gather strands of hair to twist and turn.

"You know, I am really glad you came," Hermione ventures, after a few rounds of braiding. From the appearance thus far, the blonde assumes that she is going for Quinn's characteristic crown of braids. For some reason, this brings a vague smile to her face.

"Yeah," daring to look through the mirror, Quinn prays that their eyes don't meet. "So am I."

"It's nice to have some normalcy sometimes," she elaborates, catching Quinn off-guard. "to just be... teenage girls, for a little bit."

Some sort of hollow feeling forms in the pit of Quinn's stomach as she at last permits her eyes to wander to the mirror's reflection again. Hermione has finished the left braid now and is moving her swift hands in preparation to begin the right.

"Definitely," Quinn agrees lamely.

"How are you, by the way?" the inquiry causes the Seer's ears to burn.

"I'm..." it would do no good to lie but to enlighten her fully would be just as detrimental. "...managing."

From the mirror, Quinn watches as Hermione's eyebrows furrow deeply, summoning creases in the girl's forehead that the blonde had never before seen.

"Quinn, honestly,  _how are you_?"

The genuine care and curiosity in Hermione's voice is tangible as though she had shown Quinn her worries spelled out clearly on paper. The latter is left to sigh, feeling foolish. She wishes that she could just forget, could just lose herself in the rhythmic and soothing twist and pull of her friend's fingers in her hair.

"You want the truth?"

"A silly question if I've ever heard one!" proclaims Hermione, accidentally tugging at Quinn's hair - which she quickly apologizes for. "Of course."

"I'm stressed, Hermione—stressed out and... and scared," rolling her lips over her teeth, Quinn rubs the palm of her right hand over her own right cheek without even noticing the habitual behavior. "but I'm managing, like I said. It's just... a lot at once, you know."

"I know," she whispers the words empathetically, authentic sadness underlining her face. Her fingers curl briefly against Quinn's scalp as though it had been intended as a comforting gesture. Quinn's tongue lashes against the back of her teeth.

"I'll be okay," she lies, not knowing what else to say.

"I know you will," Hermione smiles distantly, finishing up the rest of Quinn's second braid before glancing in the mirror not to admire her handiwork but to meet her friend's tepid stare. "You're a strong girl, Quinn. I can see a fire in you."

 _'That makes one of us,'_ Quinn thinks bitterly, her only outward acknowledgment being that of a slight jerk of her lips.

"Just remember, though," before the seated witch can say or do anything, Hermione's hands are on Quinn's shoulders. Their eyes, of deepest green and darkest brown, are intertwined via the mirror. Quinn worries that her heartbeat, loud and racing, can be heard echoing from her chest. "No matter what, you are not alone; and I don't mean just me. Harry, Ron, Luna, June, Professor Dumbledore, Emmeline, even crazy old Trelawney-" at this, she produces a slight chuckle that nearly mimics a cry. "Quinn, we're here for you."

Emotion solidifies in Quinn's throat, and at once, she has to sever their shared gaze. She fears that the tears burning behind her eyes will burst forth, effectively ruining the kind sentiment.

"I know," she says, borrowing Hermione's words and using every last ounce of her strength to keep her voice steady. "You don't understand how much... how much I appreciate you- all of you."

A hum flutters in the back of Hermione's throat as she gives Quinn's shoulders a squeeze. Their eyes meet once more, fleetingly, prior to the brunette stepping back somewhat.

"So, what do you think?" Hermione asks of her braids.

Quinn deadpans, putting a cap on her deeper emotions as she squints at her reflection.

"I think... that I'm not leaving until you've been schooled formally on the art of the French braid!"

"What!" feigning shock, Hermione props her hands on her hips.

The two erupt into mild hysteria, one of smugness and the other of laughter, as Quinn spins about to try to apprehend the brush from Hermione with much protest. A mock battle of dominance ensues that leaves both girls close to tears from laughing.

Tonight, they would just be girls. They would laugh and cry. They would whisper and smile. For a single evening, they would shed all guise of responsibility and revel in the extraordinary status of young adulthood. They would be not Seer or witch, child soldier or impending martyr. They would be Quinn and Hermione, passionate adolescents caught on the cusp of the whirlwind of adulthood.

Then tomorrow, their troubles would resume – but only after tonight is long, long gone, because tonight would be all about them, and no one else. The new year would have to wait for them.


	15. A Civil War

Thinking back on their conversations that night, Quinn begins to question how easily they fell into the comfort provided by one another. They shared secrets, as well as their most private fears.

"I'm worried, Quinn," was Hermione's first profound revelation. "For Harry, for everyone."

From her place on the floor, staring at her hands, Quinn interlaced her fingers. There was no sense in asking why. Quinn knew, and so did Hermione. So, the former merely persisted.

"I just can't shake this feeling that I have," her voice dropped to a sullen whisper. In spite of this, Quinn didn't need to strain. She heard her as loud and as clear as though she was speaking directly into her ear. "This feeling that something dreadful is just around the corner. It has me on a constant edge."

Quinn nodded, her mouth miserably dry. She didn't know how to articulate her own feelings into words but they were almost painfully synonymous with Hermione's.

"Then again, I suppose you understand this more than anyone," Hermione uttered without judgment, peering over at Quinn from beneath her eyelashes. "Being clairvoyant and all."

"I-" the observation caught Quinn off-guard. She shrugged, abruptly flustered. "I don't know, I guess."

"Have you..." Visibly hesitating, Hermione combed her teeth over her bottom lip. "I know it's not my place to ask, but have you...  _seen_  anything, Quinn?"

Quinn went rigid. Having been so resolved to avoid her so-called 'gift' as much as she could, the thought of actually addressing it outwardly terrified her. She drew her legs up to her chest and fought against a sharp intake of breath. Already her pulse was reckless and swift. She expected her palms and the backs of her knees to begin sweating at any moment.

"No," Hermione broke her second-long panic with an apologetic intonation. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. Forgive me. I often forget how overwhelming this must still be for you."

Her apology was genuine and radiant with sentiment, but still Quinn felt compelled to combat it with truth. Balling her hands into fists, the blonde exhaled, her flesh prickling with its usual anxiety.

"Are you aware of how my powers work?" she willed herself to say, using every last ounce of her strength to keep her voice from shaking.

"I'm afraid that I'm not."

She summoned up all of her courage and her tenacity. Hermione would become only the third (to Quinn's knowledge) person to know, aside from Trelawney and Emmeline.

"By touch," was all she could manage at first as her hands unfurled, revealing her mildly glistening palms. Her misery was written, clear as day, on her face, and she didn't even try to hide it. Hermione was watching her, dark brown eyes simply unfathomable in their depths. "That's why I..."

"Oh,  _Quinn_ ," Hermione essentially hummed her name as she scooted closer. Unconsciously, the Seer recoiled a bit. "If I had known, I would have-"

"No," Quinn shook her head, heart galloping in her chest. "It doesn't matter."

"But I-" Briefly lost in thought, Hermione soon struggled for words. "You- my parents! They shook your hand!"

"I know," the green-eyed witch swallowed the words, a poignant mixture of relief and anxiety etched on the lines of her face.

"Did you..."

"No," breathing out once more, Quinn enveloped herself with her arms slightly. "I can't control them, the visions. Not yet. I don't know why I didn't see anything when I shook your parents' hands." She paused then, cheeks burning as she tried to ascertain whether or not she even wanted to go on. "Every time you and I have touched, I've never seen anything, either."

When Hermione didn't say anything right away, Quinn sought to rectify her uncomfortably cryptic revelation.

"I mean, I guess I've touched others and seen nothing, but..."

Beside her, Hermione shifted again, rising up on her knees to move nearer. Acutely aware of herself and her surroundings, Quinn's jaw grew taut. Now moving to sit up on her knees just in front of her, Hermione tried to meet Quinn's gaze but to little effect.

"What if you took my hands in yours now?" she queried, her expression pensive yet solemn.

Clearly taken aback, Quinn gaped at her at first, her fingers itching as her eyes found their way to the other girl's curled hands. The idea of grasping a hold of someone, much less Hermione,  _willingly_  was close to first on her list of things she never wanted to do.

"No."

"You said it yourself." In spite of her passion for the idea, Hermione was notably soft with Quinn. "You and I have touched before, and you've seen nothing. Where's the harm in confirming that theory? It will give you one less person to worry over."

"I appreciate the sentiment," her own bitterness took Quinn by surprise. "But no, absolutely not. I don't want to risk it."

"What are you afraid of, Quinn?" she pressed, eyebrows furrowing in a way that betrayed her patience.

"Nothing."

"Clearly, that is not the truth."

Quinn's nostrils flared slightly as she glowered at the witch in front of her. Her temper and fear started to expand, then, rudely displaying themselves in ripples of the perilous green pools of her eyes.

"I don't know what I'll see," was her vague reply.

"Well, obviously-"

"I don't want to foresee your death, all right? Or anyone's!" The latter was thrust forward as a brusque afterthought. For a moment, Quinn permitted her aggravation to take hold. "I've never seen anything good in these visions, Hermione. It's all death, fire, and brimstone!"

When Hermione didn't reply right away, Quinn continued.

"There's a reason that I try my damn hardest to avoid touching anyone, Hermione. The future is grim. It  _sucks_ ," reduced to childish explanations, she licked her lips in frustration, unable to meet Hermione's eyes. "I don't want to see you, or anyone I care about, die."

The confession left her mouth without conscious thought or regret. As hot as it burned her veins, she wasn't shy about admitting it. Whether she liked it or not, Hermione had gotten under her skin. She  _did_ care about her.

Hermione gave off what looked to be a frown at first but what eventually showed itself to be an anguished smile. With her knuckles rolling against her knees, Quinn watched her fight the urge to reach out to her again.

"Everyone dies, Quinn. We can't evade death forever. It's unnatural," Hermione whispered, silently calling upon the other witch to meet her gaze. They stared into one another's eyes, transfixed.

"Don't you think I know that?" This time, Quinn's voice wasn't irritated or even accusatory. It was honest and forlorn - gentle, even. "I don't need to be reminded. I don't want to be reminded."

Silence clung to the air, comfortable where Quinn supposed it should have been unsettling. It was in this moment that Hermione held out her hands, palms up.

"Take my hands, Quinn," she implored, their eyes never once wavering from the other's. "I'm unafraid. Please... let me help you learn to feel the same."

For all her nervousness, the Seer didn't realize that her lips were now parted. Her green stare became enveloped in the alluring watch of those brown eyes. She released the tense breath that had gathered in her chest. It was then – and only then – that her eyes wandered down to the invitation offered in Hermione's palms.

It felt like a lifetime before the silken promise of palm against palm greeted her. Unexpectedly, Quinn held her breath, holding on for dear life as her thumbs brushed the backs of Hermione's hands.

She saw nothing but the blind determination reflected perfectly in Hermione's eyes.

* * *

Days pass, and that foreign sensation of accomplishment never quite leaves Quinn in spite of the civil war that rages on within herself. After that night, she left with a conflicting sense of understanding and fear. It had been that which sparked the battle inside of her. Anger and concern quickly married to give birth to the realization that, the closer she gets to Hermione, the more danger the other girl would be in for. This is, of course, ignoring the already established fact that one of her best friends is the (in)famous boy-wizard, Harry Potter who had essentially been born with a red bull's-eye scrawled across his back. What good would more bad incentive do for a girl who already had so much on her record?

Sure, Quinn took her hands, a rightful step forward. Yet as soon as her feet touched the welcome mat later that night, Quinn took several giant leaps backward. She swore to erect walls between them again, in an attempt to salvage the days of old when they pretended to loathe one another.

She does this even with the knowledge that they can never again revisit those days. Hermione knows too much, and so does Quinn. They had both grown irrevocably, and no amount of blocking or deflecting techniques could keep Hermione out of her system. That ship had sailed long ago. Hermione had long since effectively crawled beneath her skin. There would be no uprooting her. It's simply impossible.

Frustrated beyond belief, Quinn clenches her fists causing her knuckles to burn with white. She swears beneath her breath, her tongue hot with her irritation as she paces her room, thankful that her mother is out on another dinner date with her new man of choice, Paul.

In two days time, she would be on a train heading back to Hogwarts. Dutifully, she evaded multiple letters of concern from Hermione, June, Luna, and - perhaps most surprisingly - Emmeline. She wrote them back and essentially, wrote them off, but Emmeline's was the one that captured the most of her attention.

As she conjures up the memory of the content of the letter, her eyes drift over to where it sits, opened, on her messy desktop.

_Quinn,_

_I offer my sincerest apologies for my prolonged absence and distance from you as of late. My relationship with you as your mentor is important to me, and I can only assume how confused you may have felt by my absence. As it happened, I had unexpected personal business to attend to, but I shall see you this term. Remember my advice to you, and we will meet at our usual times._

_Wishing you the best,  
Emmeline Vance_

Quinn spent hours wracking her brain over that last cryptic sentence. 'Remember my advice to you,' it read, and even now, as she considers it at the present, her eyebrows furrow. Emmeline has given her heaps of advice pertaining to virtually all aspects of life as far as the magical realm goes. The ambiguous nature of her letter left an uneasy feeling in Quinn that she couldn't quite shake. Sure, it seemed harmless enough - understandable, even, but it didn't sit right with her. This is what led Quinn to the decision to approach Emmeline about this as soon as possible, if only to ease her already worry-ridden mind. It would be one less thing to agonize over on her perpetually expanding list.

Her arrival at Platform 9 3/4 two days later proves to be both equally comforting and unsettling. An odd pair, no doubt, but as she stands toting her owl beneath her arm, looking blankly at the train, she greets the opposite sentiments with hesitation. She is apprehensive, and yet she isn't sure why. Something about this trip back to Hogwarts feels too surreal or, perhaps, too final. Either way, it takes the final hoot of the train to call her back to attention before she is boarding at last. She takes a seat in a compartment with nameless and faceless strangers, and she says nothing pending their arrival. Quinn sits alone with her apprehension.

* * *

The gravity of returning to Hogwarts is unspeakable. As others brush past her, eager to return to their magical lives, Quinn feels caught in the crossfire of their shared enthusiasm. There is a renewed heaviness in her feet. As though weights are wound around her ankles, she hesitates at the mouth of the Great Hall with her palms aching painfully. Swallowing, she brushes her hands against her skirt, only vaguely aware of the uncanny shift in the air around her.

The sensation is stark only a moment after, grasping Quinn directly behind her eyes and pulling her in. A voice prods at the back of her mind, whispering, imploring. She thinks it wishes to call her back, but instead, she's stepping forward.

Suddenly, her feet are bare. Her legs, once exposed by the rise of her school uniform, are shrouded in the purest white. Quinn's chest expands, and the scent of decay, of death, storms into her nostrils, nearly choking her. Pulse racing, she spins about, barely noticing the elongated sway of her too-white gown. Horror paints her face, and she knows all too quickly where she has gone.

"I've slipped..." the final word dies on the threshold of her dry, dry lips. She is overcome with dismay, with the beating of one thousand hearts - like drums - in her mind, escalating. Quinn sees not the Great Hall as it had been only moments before: bright, fresh,  _alive._  She sees it as she knows it will become.

There are limp figures.

"Oh,  _god_ -" her voice breaks off into a silent wail.

Bodies. They are bodies. Broken, sullied,  _lifeless_. They litter the Great Hall, coated in ash and congealed blood. She sputters, falling back against the arch of the large gathering area. Her legs become caught, however - entangled in what she thinks is her dress. This is, of course, before her eyes shoot frantically downward in a last ditch effort to reclaim what remains of her balance.

Someone has grabbed her ankles, has called her name. She knows that voice. Her throat constricts. She knows that face.

"Ron?" all but asphyxiating on his name, she yelps as her fingernails snag the stone wall during her descent. She lands on her knees, essentially bent over the boy's crumpled form.

"Help me," he begs, spewing blood from his lips that dares to taint the flawless gossamer glow of Quinn's ethereal robes. "Help me...  _please_."

He's grasping at her frock now, tugging and pulling at the corset of her dress in a dying man's desperation. Quinn doesn't know why, but her eyes are burning horribly. Then, before she knows it, she's crying as though she knows this boy, as though she has any right at all to cry for him.

"I'll help you," she insists with an unfortunate warble in her voice. Her eyes move down to her gown. It's stained so crimson that she, for a selfish moment, wonders if perhaps she has injured herself, too.

But no. On her knees, she starts to examine Ron, to poke and prod for the source of it all and, oh god - there is so much blood. There is just too much blood.

"Hold on for- just, f-for a second, Ron... I-"

"Help me," his plea is just above a whisper but no less desperate.

"I'm going to," she assures him in a fit of wretched defiance.

"Help... me..." but he's fading from her now. She tries to reach for him, but she's grabbing at air.

"Ron!" she screams his name much more loudly than she intends but to no avail. She's groping at nothing, hands left to drip with the disgustingly warm remnants of Ron's demise. "No..." again, she cries, and for what? A noise cuts off in the rise of her throat as she realizes that she's not yet alone, however.

Jerking her head upward, she finds herself face to face with darkness at first. This is only when she remembers that she's still on her knees, crouching where Ron's body should still be. Sniffing, she angles her head upward, engrossed by all the black that appears to surround her.

"Who," once so sure, her voice is now a miserable croak. "Who's there?"

There is silence, destructive and all-consuming, and then there are those eyes: red, serpentine. He has her before the scream can even scratch the surface of her throat.

" _Quinn_ ," But it's a different voice than she expects. Certainly, she hadn't expected his arms to feel so hospitable. "Quinn, look at me. Look at me."

Her limbs feel like lead, drooping uselessly to either side. She is only just aware of someone holding tight to her, keeping her steady. Nevertheless, they are trembling, too. Quinn's head lolls slightly, her vision blurring to adjust to the sudden dim quality of the light around her and whoever is with her.

"Her...Hermione?"

"No, Quinn," says the voice, so obviously male now. "It's Harry. Harry."

"Harry," his name sounds so foreign on her tongue. Then again, Quinn's own voice is abstract to her, now, in its slurred, dreamlike quality. "Harry Potter."

"That's right," for some reason or another, Harry sighs in what sounds like relief. "Here, I've got you," tightening his grip slightly on her, he coaxes her toward a nearby bench where he encourages her to sit with him. His hands never once leave her left arm or the small of her back as they sit, however. He supports her, seemingly until he is sure she is steady enough to do so on her own.

"How's that?" asks Harry, giving her arm a gentle squeeze.

For the first time since she has found herself with him, Quinn makes to reassure herself of her surroundings. The scent of winter, cold and severe, stings her nose and cheeks. They are most assuredly outside. Her eyes, still bleary as though with sleep, blink once, twice. They are in the courtyard.

"How did we..." she trails off, trying to focus her eyes on Harry who sits to her left. His hands loosen on her somewhat. For a heartbeat, he almost looks embarrassed.

"You... I saw you stumble," Harry visibly hesitates. "You looked ill, and then you..."

Dread gathers at the base of Quinn's stomach.

"Then I, what?"

"You began to convulse."

Understanding falls upon her like a waterfall of the cruelest realization.

"I had-" she stops herself, pulled far enough out of her vision's reverie to return to her usual sense of shame when it came to her Sight. "I mean- I... I see."

Harry looks at her oddly. From the glimmer in his green eyes, Quinn knows full well that he doesn't believe her terribly faulty lie. Who would? Even a less a boy who's as famous as the word famous itself around here. Surely he knows a thing or two about deceit. She clears her throat softly - just now aware of how cold it actually is outside. Quinn can do little to mask the shiver that follows. Recognition dawning on his face, Harry all but jumps to his feet.

"Right, sorry," he pretends to smooth down his robes before gesturing toward the entrance. "We should probably go back inside. Fresh air is kind of a moot point now, huh?"

Cracking the tiniest of forced grins, Quinn rises to her feet. The blood rushes to her head all at once, however, and she is left unsteady and quivering. Even so, when Harry reaches for her, she quickly denies him.

"Thanks, but I'm fine," she says, if not a bit insolently. Harry doesn't try to help her again, even as she nearly trips on her way up the steps twice. Lucky for him, Quinn reflects, he remains completely silent and stoic. Even in her current state of psychological disorder, she wouldn't allow any quips at her expense tonight.

Once inside and with the door secure, the pair hesitates again. Quinn can see about a million thoughts and questions on his face. Yet, apparently, he lacks the wherewithal to pose them. It's this that separates the two of them.

"Why didn't you take me to the nurse?" she asks out of almost nowhere, regaining bits and pieces of her confidence as her consciousness slowly reclaims its foothold. "You said I began convulsing. What if I had been in serious danger?"

Quinn would be lying if she didn't own up to the great amount of satisfaction that she gets from watching Harry squirm. She practically has to claw off the smirk that covets her lips. No, she forces herself to appear merely curious, perhaps a little off-put. Her lapse of childishness is not lost on her.

"I just had a feeling..."

"A feeling?" Quinn catches him swiftly for his choice of words.

"Well..." now he's really chomping at the bit. It's as though she can see the gears grinding in his head, fighting for a plausible answer. Regardless, Quinn is nowhere near prepared for the words that at last fall from his mouth. "Please don't be angry."

Angry? Her left brow arches.

"Hermione... sort of... told me... about your-"

It hits her all at once: rage, hurt, and betrayal. She's on Harry before she can even register it with her left arm acting as a battering ram to his chest. Quinn has him pinned to the wall.

"My  _what_?" she thunders, her veins throbbing at her temples (aftershocks of both her vision and her fury, no doubt).

"Easy," suggests Harry, not even attempting to fight against her hold. For what it's worth, he just takes it, allowing her to keep him there.

"Whatever she told you...!" Quinn is spouting, but he interjects politely.

"She worries about you, you know."

For a moment, it sounds as though Quinn is about to verbally strike again. However, after registering Harry's remark, she gives a considerable pause, almost as though she is confused. Perhaps more insult to her injury is how she steadily feels her anger melting away.  _No! No!_ she berates herself inwardly.  _You're mad! You're angry! She went behind your back and-._ Her heart fumbles against her sternum. All at once, she releases Harry and takes a step back, eyeing first her feet and then the boy in front of her miserably.

"She didn't betray your confidence, if that's what you're worried about, Quinn," Harry murmurs, regaining his footing after Quinn relinquishes her hold on him. "She only told me about the spell outside, nothing else. She asked me and Ron to look out for you when she isn't around."

Bullheaded even at her weakest, Quinn folds her lips into a hard line.

"I don't need looking after," she asserts hotly. "I'm not a child."

Surprisingly, Harry offers her a bit of a smile.

"Believe me, I get it," he combs his fingers through his hair absentmindedly. "Truth be told, even after all these years, I think Hermione would have me tailed 24/7 if she could. She's a worrier, that one."

Against her will, something within Quinn softens at this observation. She furrows her brows, confused. Presumably taking her silence as further proof of her bewilderment, Harry continues.

"She doesn't mean it..." he struggles for the right word, " _badly_ -" though he is visibly uncertain of his choice, he persists. "Honestly, Hermione doesn't have a bad bone in her body, but," and his eyes mollify considerably as he looks at her. "When she cares about someone - I mean, when she really  _cares_ , doing anything less than one-hundred percent for that person just isn't an option."

Her face is hot,  _boiling._ Something about this conversation, about Hermione, has set off a volatile chain reaction of unbearable heat throughout her body. Digging her nails into her palms, she struggles to find words. Surely her shock (and awe?) must be written clear as day across her rose red face about now. So she says the only thing that she can think of.

"I'm sorry," it hangs in the air. "For lashing out at you."

Now it's Harry's turn to look confused, though he handles it much more elegantly than Quinn.

"Don't worry over it," he tells her genuinely, and suddenly, Quinn witnesses a kinship between them. The lines beneath his eyes speak to the purple blush beneath her own. This is a boy who, too, has  _Seen_ \- but in a different but not all-together dissimilar manner. An emotion begins to stir within her, taking root at her feet and blooming all the way up to the top of her head: sympathy.

Then, for a second time, Harry catches her off-guard. He steps toward her, hands to himself yet somehow conveying such a profound level of understanding that it nearly unearths her.

"I won't lie and tell you that it will get easier, Quinn... all of this, but if you let others in... even just one," he falters here, and Quinn knows he must be referring to Hermione. Her flesh prickles. "I can promise you that it can only help you."

She exhales, releasing the tension that had built up inside of her. The silence between them would be comforting if it hadn't been so deafening. Searching for a solution, Quinn deftly averts her eyes.

"I suppose you, of all people, would know," she observes, almost timidly.

Harry remains quiet for a moment before presenting the smallest of smiles.

"Yeah," is all he says, and the simplicity of the reply washes over her as heavily as relief.

Quinn nods, and for once, she means it.

"Thank you," she replies at last, making sure to look him square in the eyes - green and green. Perhaps in an alternate universe, they could have been brother and sister. The blond witch smiles vaguely, entertaining the fleeting thought.

"Of course," he insists dismissively. "Anytime."

* * *

Quinn left Harry there amicably with the excuse that she was tired. This isn't an unreasonable stretch from the truth. She's exhausted. She has been for almost two years now. All she needs now is just a moment's time to herself. With the majority of the student body still tending to their dinners, Quinn is hopeful that she will have her dorm room to herself... if only for a short period. This is all she needs.

After answering a rather mundane riddle, she finds herself in the common room. As expected, there are two, possibly three lurkers, and still it is utterly quiet save for the mild crackling of the fire.

She makes good time of the steps up to her shared room. The familiarity of it all greets her on a wave of nostalgia. In fact, Quinn can't help but smile a little as her eyes brush over the belongings of June and even the other two. She inhales, reminded of the soothing smell of parchment as she strides over to her bed.

Dragging the pads of her fingers along the comforter, she is met with images - images that she quickly recognizes as not-supernatural. For whatever reason, she is thinking of Hermione which leads her mind to tick back to her conversation with Harry just under a half hour ago. She conjures up pictures of their night together over Christmas break, how they had spoken so candidly with one another.

_How I willingly took her hands._

At this, her eyes drop to the limbs in question. Upturned, she examines them, reigniting the warmth that was there that night, the gentle blush of Hermione's palms against her own. Quinn's stomach seems to twist almost excitedly at this, and she has to drop her hands to her sides immediately, out of fear.

_Hermione cares. She cares about me._

This isn't new information, of course; and Quinn knows this. Hermione is rather adept at making her concerns and feelings crystal clear.

_And I care. I care about her, too._

Perhaps this isn't novel, either, but for Quinn, it certainly feels like it. Admitting it, even in the confines of her head, feels new. She relates it to the first initial plunge into a lake, while cold at first, once her body adjusts to the temperature of the sentiment, it feels good - comfortable, even. It feels just right.

A shuddering breath rattles her bones as she swiftly moves to sit on her bed with her hands gripping at the covers on either side of her. The recognition, the depth of her feelings, is just below the surface when she feels a somewhat familiar presence at her back.

"Teacher," she breathes, the hairs along her arms standing on end as she remains in the present. Quinn can feel the enigmatic presence at her back, possibly in the corner of the room on the opposite side of her bed. For a reason unknown to Quinn, the Seer doesn't turn to try to look at the supernatural force.

_'IT HAS BEEN... SOME TIME.'_

"What do you want?" Quinn expels, not nearly as irritably as she wishes.

 _'TIME IS WEARING THIN,'_ comes the chilling hiss of her Guide.  _'AND YOU ARE NOT PROGRESSING NEARLY AS SWIFTLY AS YOU SHOULD-'_

Anger wells up within the witch, and she very nearly wants to turn on her otherworldly mentor.

"I was on break for god's sake!" snaps Quinn, nerves clearly shot.

 _'JUST AS THE DARKNESS SHALL NOT ABATE, NEITHER SHALL YOU,'_ Teacher croaks.  _'YOU MUST HURRY, LEST YOU FALL - AND FOR NOTHING.'_

Though Quinn is practically itching to lash out again, she feels herself essentially lulled into the submissive stance of an eager student.

_'THIS - ALL OF THIS, IS MORE, FAR MORE, THAN SIMPLY YOU. YOU - MUST - HAVE - DISCIPLINE.'_

"I do ha-"

_'YOU MUST ISOLATE YOURSELF FROM ALL DISTRACTIONS, AND IN TIME, YOU SHALL BE TAKEN TO YOUR RIGHTFUL PLACE.'_

The young witch doesn't even bother to disguise her aggravation now. She is on her feet, tense and ready to spring. Still, she feels compelled not to turn around. So she finds herself going at it with the bedpost across from her in place of Teacher.

"My rightful place? You mean, here, in this magical world, as its plaything Seer?"

 _'NO,'_  gargles the entity.  _'AS A PART OF SOMETHING BIGGER, GREATER... SOMETHING... SOMETHING TO COME.'_

Frustrated and confused beyond comprehension, Quinn tosses her hands to her sides.

_'BUT FIRST... FIRST YOU MUST REMOVE YOURSELF.'_

"Remove myself from what?"

_'FROM THE BINDS THAT YOU HAVE CREATED WITH THOSE WHOM YOU DO NOT BELONG.'_

Every nerve in Quinn's body feels to go numb. Her face whitens just as her heart stumbles once, then twice. Somehow (and she isn't quite sure on the  _'how'_ ), she knows that Teacher is referring to Luna, to June, to  _Hermione._ Blood roars like thunder in her ears, and she gropes for one of the posters of her bed in a last-ditch effort to keep herself standing.

_'YOU WILL ONLY BRING THEM DEATH AND DESPAIR. IF YOU TRULY CARED FOR THEM, YOU WOULD HAVE DISSOLVED YOUR TIES LONG AGO - IN THE BEGINNING...'_

_In the beginning._

Quinn's backside collides with the comforter again. Her heart is beating too fast. Her mind is racing off its intelligible axis. It's no wonder she is reduced to passive silence.

 _'YOUR PLACE,'_  Teacher maintains.  _'IS ELSEWHERE. REMOVE YOURSELF; REMOVE YOURSELF, AND I - I SHALL SHOW YOU THE WAY.'_

Dumbstruck, Quinn is left with her mouth agape and her body shivering almost violently. This seems so unreal, out-of-body even. Is Teacher seriously asking her to isolate herself entirely? To remove every last ounce of meaning and good from her life for the sole purpose of moving past her status as a fledging Seer? A stifled cry trips on the back of her tongue as she wrestles with the reality of the situation. It doesn't seem worth it, to be alone, utterly and completely alone - and for what? To play the faithful mage to some bulky wizard army's tanks of power. She can't fathom the forced solitude. With every ounce of her being, she aches at the prospect of being alone again, of being without anyone.

_And Hermione._

_'DO YOU WISH DEATH UPON THEM? THOSE WHOM YOU CARE FOR?'_  the being's words are a cruel and unwelcome uppercut to her already flourishing agony. Quinn's knees are quaking, even as she rests perched on her bed.

"No," she manages to choke out, horrified but wholly certain. "No."

She is greeted with an onslaught of eerie quiet. Something behind her, where she presumes Teacher's likeness to be, stirs; and suddenly, she chances upon her courage again. Quinn turns her head, her limbs a rush of nervousness. But she sees nothing. There is nothing there, in the corner. The room is empty. She is alone. Her body gives one violent shake just as she draws her arms around herself. A ghostly chill feels to have passed through her core, her very soul, and it takes all of her resolve not to succumb to a harrowing whimper.

_'THEN YOUR CHOICE IS MADE.'_


End file.
